The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  ‘Is he good looking?’ Ruth fizzed with unsubtle questioning; she had to be smiling.

  I pictured the man in his scruffy clothes, which were at odds with his educated tone of voice and gentlemanly phrases. ‘Yes, kind of, but slightly gaunt, as if he’s been ill.’

  ‘Perhaps he has been unwell and he’s just getting back into things. There aren’t many opportunities for young men in rural places; he’s doing what he can. He probably makes a fine living helping lonely young women.’

  I sensed her smirk on the other end of the phone. I laughed, forcing it out. ‘Well, he found me quick and he offered to sort out the kitchen cupboards.’

  ‘So, see it as good fortune. He knows the house – given he was friends with Felicity – and you might find out more about her.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Then I spied it, above my head: the doorbell cable was detached. A flurry of butterflies escaped my belly. What had forced it loose? I stared at the thin wire linking the pull to the bell, which hung close to the ceiling. I would need a stepladder to fix it.

  ‘Ruth?’ I began, tentatively.

  ‘Mmm?’ Her voice crackled.

  ‘When I first met Bert he implied the house was haunted, or I should say Maggie had told him that.’ I held my breath waiting for her reaction.

  Why was I contemplating such a ludicrous idea? I rested my chin on my knees and used my spare arm to hug my legs. The hallway was polar and my thick jumper had lost the battle.

  Ruth snorted, an almost derisory response. ‘Surely Felicity would have been alive when Maggie told Bert. Felicity didn’t die in the house.’

  ‘I guess ghosts are supposed to die in the place they haunt. She was cremated; perhaps her ashes blew over to here.’ I traced my foot along the edge of a floor tile and swept aside the accumulated dust with my toes.

  ‘Do you believe in them, ghosts?’

  ‘No,’ I exclaimed sharply. ‘Nonsense. I don’t believe in them. If I saw one I might, but I haven’t.’

  ‘So it’s gossip, Miriam. The bored inhabitants of Little Knottisham filling the airways with chatter about the supernatural. Do you think if Felicity had lived in a modern house, rather than an old hall, there’d been this rumour? Ignore it.’

  ‘Perhaps Charles can give me more details, assuming he’s party to it all.’

  ‘There, good idea. I’m glad you’re making friends. I won’t have to worry about you much.’

  I smiled. Ruth, the motherly type with no children of her own, taking care of me. ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ll be up soon.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it. I’ve so much to do. I’m sure the time will fly by.’

  ‘It will, just keep busy.’

  I eyed the wire. Bert might have a stepladder. I would fix it myself; make sure it didn’t come loose again. There were no invisible ghosts in this house. What haunted it was shabbiness and malfunctioning things.

  ‘Sleep well,’ she said, except the ‘well’ sounded more like ‘ell’. I had come to some frozen kind of hell, a money pit of a mansion. I needed to sell it so I could payback for a year of living in a freezer populated by weird dust.

  NINE

  I needed a sat nav in the car. I’ve just driven down the same street in King’s Lynn for the third time. Eventually, I parked outside the hardware store, grabbed my shopping list and proceeded to dash around the shop in a crazed, haphazard fashion.

  I should be drawing pictures of guinea pigs – little furry animals chased across the farm by an angry goat. I’d envisaged a sequence of comic strip illustrations created in watercolours and finished in ink; the author had already approved the draft. The hard graft was producing the finished thirty-two pages by Christmas.

  To help relieve the stress of standing in the checkout queue, which crept along at a ponderous pace, I tried the breathing exercise I’d learnt at Pilates. Inhale through the nose – wait, count and hold – release slowly through the mouth. I whistled through pursed lips, then repeated, allowing my lungs to expand. The woman standing behind me took a step back, as if I was contagious. Perhaps I should find a Pilate’s class nearby, something to do on the cold winter evenings.

  The glacial house ate into my bones. Waiting my turn in the queue, I took refuge in daydreams, imagining a fragrant bath or better still, a blistering hot shower with billowing steam and the prickling spray massaging the tortured muscles of my back. Unfortunately, I had to manage with a bowl, a sponge and a quick wash in front of the heater. I fought the temptation to sneak away and pay for a hotel room for the night so I could bask in the luxury of warmth. I doubted my expenses extended to those tactics on a regular basis, but even if I did break the rules, would Mr Porter know? How would he ensure I was keeping up my side of the bargain? No doubt he would spring a visit on me, something unexpected.

  I’d not anticipated a few binding clauses in a will could successfully hold me hostage to a ridiculous situation. ‘Stubborn to the core’ – my father’s frequent reference to my less endearing trait. I couldn’t contemplate reversing my decision – the money from the sale remained an enticing lure.

  The queue shuffled forward. Somebody at the front had picked up the wrong item and a helpful assistant had gone to fetch the correct one. Clutching the wire shopping basket in my hands, I surveyed the lighting department, which was small in scale and dominated by uplighters and halogen bulbs. I fixated on the few traditional lampshades hanging from the display racks. The bulbs in my house remained bare and unadorned. Seeing the shades, which I’d walked past with determination, I craved the decorative cones with their frilly edges and bright colours and with it came hankerings for other trivia: the coasters on coffee tables and gilt-framed photographs. For my kitchen, I needlessly desired a spice rack, silicone oven gloves and a tea cosy in the shape of a cat. Never one for green thumbs, even the droopy houseplants on display called out to be placed on the windowsills of Heachley Hall. I closed my eyes and drifted back into the realm of imaginary delights. There, on sunny mornings, I’d draw back the insulated curtains and wriggle my toes in the soft carpet pile.

  No, it wasn’t to be. What was the point of filling the house with transient comforts when I was unswerving in my wish to sell the place? I ceased my unfocused attempt at meditation, opened my eyes and stepped forward, dropping my basket on the counter with an unapologetic clatter. I would stick to improving the fabric of the house and its permanent features. More importantly, I needed to return home. I’d guinea pigs to draw.

  ·•●•·

  Back at Heachley Hall in Charles’s shed, I laid out the sanding tools: a block and sheets of emery paper, a small paintbrush and a large tin of oak stain varnish on the workbench. Next time I went to King’s Lynn, I would ask Charles to join me and he could pick the best hinges. However, he wasn’t around to ask. Would he turn up? I hoped he would.

  I headed upstairs carrying a mug of coffee and sat in front of my desktop easel. I picked up a pencil and sketched a dumpy guinea pig with extraordinary long whiskers. Calmness descended. The pencil glided, guided by my steadying hand and my pulse no longer thrummed in my temples. It seemed only in the moment of quietness with the tools of my trade arranged about me did I find peace of mind, the tranquillity of knowing I was doing something I loved. The rustle of leaves outside slipped away into nothingness, as did the rain drumming on the window. I had no awareness of either, only the soft whir of the heater in the background, pumping out some warmth. My knuckles ached with the cold.

  I took a break. Repetitively humming a tune, I washed-up the mug in the kitchen sink. When I turned to face the cupboards, one of the broken doors was missing. Charles had removed the door. I must have left the back door open.

  Did he like coffee? With milk? I gambled Charles was a coffee drinker and made him one. The rain had stopped and I crossed the yard. Around the perimeter of the small yard a forest of nettles and hollyhocks grew, and between the cobbles, tufts of grass and moss softened the edges of the worn stones. I
stumbled on the slippery surface and spilt a few drops of coffee.

  The damaged cupboard door lay on the bench. Charles was bent over and sanding off a residual layer of lacquer using the emery paper. He’d fashioned a square block of wood and wrapped the paper about it. I’d forgotten to purchase a sanding block.

  ‘I brought you a coffee.’ I placed it on the edge of the bench away from where he was working.

  ‘Thank you. You didn’t have to.’ He blew at the veneer of sawdust and the tiny shavings scattered, revealing a richer, natural colour. ‘See, the wood beneath is in good condition.’ With little effort, he held the bulky door up to the light.

  ‘I didn’t buy any new hinges,’ I explained, ‘I didn’t know which ones were best. Next time I go to King’s Lynn you should come with me and choose the right ones.’

  He picked up one of the hinges he’d removed and held it out. ‘Just like this one. I’m sure you will find a good match. Take it with you. My time is best spent here.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ I hid my disappointment. I’d hoped he’d come with me but it seemed Charles had little intention of spending his spare time with me. On the table there were several carpentry tools that I hadn’t provided him, including a plane and metal file.

  ‘Were these left over from Felicity’s time or did you bring them?’ I pointed at the small collection.

  ‘Your great-aunt kindly provided me with these implements.’ He touched the handle of the file with a gentle caress of his fingertips, almost lovingly. ‘She was always most generous.’

  ‘I wonder why the clearance men didn’t take them?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let us be grateful for their lack of persistence with regard to the outbuildings and their surroundings.’ He dusted down his jeans and the sawdust flew off in all directions. ‘I’ll come and fetch the next door. You don’t mind if I remove them all? I’d rather varnish them at once.’

  ‘Sure.’ I shrugged. ‘Whatever you like. I didn’t pay you for chopping the wood.’

  ‘No matter. Why not pay me when I’ve finished the doors.’ He followed me out of the shed.

  ‘If you’re okay with waiting.’ I crossed the yard.

  ‘Quite okay,’ he spoke hesitantly.

  I stood in the kitchen and hugged my cold hands under my armpits. The shed had been freezing – how did he work in those conditions? He wore similar clothes to the first time I’d seen him, except the jumper was a different colour: dark blue instead of crimson.

  He’d brought a screwdriver with him and immediately attacked a lower cupboard that hung at an angle from one hinge. The door looked like it had been kicked. I blamed the clearance men – thugs.

  Charles removed the hinge. ‘I’ll need new screws, too. These are rusty. Same size as this.’ He passed me one and I slipped it into the pocket of my fleece jacket. My teeth chattered.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he remarked.

  ‘I’m used to central heating.’ I cocked my head to the defunct radiator under the windowsill.

  ‘Felicity liked open fires. She said they were magical and enchanting to watch.’ He wrestled the door onto the floor then propped it up. ‘She’d sit by them, staring.’

  ‘Didn’t she want a television?’

  ‘No. She had one once, but her eyes were not good. She preferred to read. She had this little magnifying glass to help.’ He scrunched up his eyes, squinting at some imaginary page.

  ‘I’ve a radio. I’m going to try to manage without a telly.’

  ‘Radio is wonderful. Voices travelling across the air, speaking into your ear.’ He waved his hand in front of him. ‘Like a private conversation.’

  ‘I need the company,’ I grumbled. ‘Big house and just me.’

  ‘No gentleman callers?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  I dropped my gaze. ‘Once upon a time there was a charmless prince but no happily ever after. In fact, I’ve entertained a few. However, for the time being, I’m single and unattached.’ I could list them – a string of names etched into my catalogue of failed relationships – but what was the point of raking over has-beens. Perhaps two had captured my heart sufficiently that I mourned their unprovoked departure. The rest I’d happily ditched with trifling aftershocks on my part, although one had attempted to cling on like a limpet.

  Charles smiled at my lacklustre description of my love life. ‘So, now you’re the princess in the tower. Yes? Awaiting your glorious Norfolk prince?’

  I laughed. ‘Too, right. Trapped I am, unable to escape. Ensnared by the curse of a dead aunt—’

  ‘Curse?’ His delicate eyes had widened and an additional paleness draped over his already colourless pallor. ‘What madness comes again to Heachley?’ he muttered.

  I shrugged, sympathetic to his comment, but I found him a tad melodramatic in temperament. ‘A year and a day. My confinement here is bound by her last will and testament. Only if I live here for the specified time do I own the place properly.’ I tapped the granite surface of the worktop. ‘Hence my minimalist approach to moving in. I’m not committed to living here.’

  I’d yet to fathom out Charles’s facial expressions. We’d spent relatively little time in each other’s company, mostly polite and business-like in nature. What he showed me seemed to be shock, almost an admission of horror on his part. ‘I cannot believe she would be so cruel as to bind you to this place,’ he hissed.

  ‘Oh, it’s my choice,’ I hastened to explain. ‘If I don’t stay, it will be sold and I’ll forfeit the value of the property. I confess—’ I placed my hand over my heart, ‘—I’m after the gold pot at the end of the rainbow, assuming Heachley sells. The money.’ I swayed, as if to swoon with delight.

  His worried expression diminished. ‘Not truly trapped,’ he concurred. ‘I do hope you stay, even if it means you are less than comfortable. I shall endeavour to assist you in whatever way I can. I owe your aunt that much. I’m relieved she didn’t seek your misfortune in this arrangement.’

  ‘Don’t you find it odd that she’d seek to put such a lengthy proviso on my stay?’

  ‘She had her reasons, I suppose.’ He backed away from me and bent to pick up the door.

  He’d not really tackled my question, but why would he? It was a family matter. When I was better acquainted with Charles, I might ask him what he meant by owing Felicity. In the meantime, I wished the house wasn’t so cold.

  ‘I’ve got so much to do to make Heachley Hall fetch a decent price. Actually, you could do me a favour.’

  He straightened up without picking up the door. ‘How may I help?’

  ‘I want to light a fire in the dining room, but I’ve never lit a fire indoors before now.’

  ‘Ah, I’ll show you.’ He bounded past me. ‘Come, Miriam. It is an art, lighting a fire, and you’ll do well to learn, then those teeth of yours will stop chattering.’

  I slipped my tongue between my teeth, halting the tremors. What else had he noticed about me? My limp hair, the ink stains on my fingers? Little things that shouldn’t be out of place, but were?

  I tucked my hair behind my ears. ‘Thanks.’

  On his knees, Charles inspected the fireplace. He pulled out the grate and peered up the chimney before reaching up with the full length of his arm. ‘I can’t feel any blockages, but it probably does need to be swept.’

  He described it as an art and watching him construct a pyre, I agreed. A couple blocks of wood at the base, then a layer of kindling. He stuffed a few scraps of paper into the crannies to act as an ignition point.

  Charles lit the corner of a piece of paper and sheltered the tiny spark with his hand. The flame flickered uncertain, and for a second I thought it would die. The paper caught and the fire travelled along its length meeting another piece, and like dominoes falling, the scraps burnt in succession until the kindling was ablaze.

  ‘You need a fireguard.’

  ‘I don’t expect I’ll need a fire down here everyday.’

  ‘The house will get colder over winter.’
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br />   I didn’t doubt him. The flames licked their tongues around the blackening bark, crisping the edges. Grey smoke puffed out in response and the wood hissed and spat out its liquefied sap. I held out my hands, rubbing them before the embryonic heat.

  ‘The wood is damp,’ Charles remarked, tapping the nearest unlit block lying on the stone hearth. ‘It will smoke for a while.’ He sat back on his haunches and crossed his arms.

  ‘No matter, this will make a huge difference.’ I hunkered down on my heels next to him.

  He tossed another chunk of wood on the burning pile. ‘You like this room?’

  ‘It’s smaller compared to the others. I just find big rooms intimidating. I live in a small apartment. I remember something about this room from Felicity’s time here. Perhaps a table, I don’t know.’

  ‘It had oak panelling, so high.’ He pointed to a ribbed line running around the walls.

  I stepped away from the hearth; the fire generated an inferno of heat. ‘That explains the marks on the walls.’

  ‘She asked me to remove the panels.’

  ‘Felicity?’ I stupid question because who else did he mean.

  Charles rose and ran his hand over the surface of the wall. ‘Too dark for her tastes. She liked light shades or patterns. She put up hangings, like tapestries, she’d brought them back from her native India.’

  ‘Native? You make her sound like a foreigner.’

  ‘Do I? She made Heachley Hall her home, but everything in it spoke of a different place. It was very exotic and colourful. I can’t believe it’s all gone. A great pity.’

  I agreed with the sentiment. ‘I suspect the clearance company pilfered much of her things. The will’s executor hasn’t been…thorough.’

  He turned to fire and poked the disintegrating wood with a stick. ‘The smoke is rising. Let’s go outside and check it’s emerging from the chimney.’

  Outside in the cold I stamped my feet while we waited for the smoke to poke out of the chimney pot. I spied a damaged roof tile.