The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  ‘John created quite a scandal,’ Liz chortled and the folds in her neck wobbled in time to her feeble laughter. ‘My, my, what a family, the Marsters. The last tenants of this place had a daughter, Mary Branston—’

  ‘Mary, that’s my grandmother’s name.’ I leapt off my resting perch, eager to hear more. Finally more skeletons were tumbling out of the closet.

  ‘Because she is your grandmother. He took one look at her and swept her off her feet, or so I’m told. Except, she was twenty years his junior and her family didn’t agree with the match.’

  Mary had raised my mother a single parent, rather like my own father. She’d spoken little of her husband or any other members of either family, the Marsters or the Branstons. I’d not even known her maiden name. Liz and I, between us, had painted a portrait of fragmented families with little cohesion. I wished I taken to my grandmother, but what I remembered was a constant string of ailments and senility.

  ‘Poor Gran. I think she worked hard to provide for Mum. After Mum died, she was broken, never really recovered.’

  ‘How sad.’ There was little comfort in Liz’s expression. She swivelled on her feet and ambled around the kitchen, peering into the bare cupboards and the cavity left by the absent oven. ‘It’s not the same place. Such a fine house it must have been. Felicity couldn’t keep on top of it. She cocooned herself in the library and couldn’t be bothered with modern conveniences or technology. I think she tried the television, but she had no fascination with it. Whenever I called by, which wasn’t often as she seemed uncomfortable having visitors, I noted the decline, the chipped furniture, holes in the carpets and the flaked paintwork. If it wasn’t for the wall-hangings.’ Liz clucked her tongue, glancing around. ‘Such a shame,’ she muttered.

  ‘Yes. It’s hard work keeping a large house in good order,’ I admitted. ‘I’m failing. I haven’t even cleaned out the drawing room.’

  ‘I gather it once had a painted ceiling.’ She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It did? Wow.’ My enthusiasm failed to muster in the tone of my voice. ‘Well, not now,’ I added.

  She couldn’t hide her curiosity, so I showed her the room and the plain ceiling. She muttered some more words of pity, as if unsure whether the state of the house distressed me.

  ‘I vaguely remember visiting here,’ I explained. ‘But not this room. I think I ate cake at the dining table. Was there a long table in there?’

  Liz touched the old drapes, poking them with her fingertips until they swayed. A plume of dust billowed out towards her, enveloping her in a sheen of white powder. She jumped, emitting a mild exclamation and waved her hand about her face. Backing away from window, and between excessive splutters of coughing, she spoke almost harshly. ‘I don’t know. I never went into the dining room.’ As she crossed to the middle of the room, she brushed her clothes down with a flick of her wrist.

  ‘I’m going to turn it into a living room for the duration of my stay.’ I needed an ordinary room with furniture and warmth.

  She asked me what I did for a living and I told her about my current project. Her face transformed from chiselled sharpness into something softer. ‘I’ve a grandchild. He loves books. He’s nearly a year old.’

  ‘This book is set on a farm.’ I regretted telling her that the moment the words left my mouth. She insisted on seeing the progress, which meant ascending to my workroom. She dawdled, taking her time to reach the attic and grabbing the opportunity to stick her head around each of the bedroom doors. She muttered indiscriminately as she snooped, admitting she hadn’t been upstairs before. When she peered into the bathroom, her scowl turned into an aghast expression. I heard her mutter, ‘How could she let this place get so run down.’

  I ignored her grumbling. In my workroom, I’d laid out the drawings on the table.

  She pointed at the half-finished illustration of the farmer. ‘My, he looks just like Tony.’

  I scrambled to collect up the sheets, embarrassed that my caricature had been more accurate than I intended. ‘Is it?’ I said, with feinted surprise.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘I have to go; time to feed the chickens.’

  Walking back into the kitchen to collect her handbag, I bumped into her back as she froze on the threshold. I squeezed passed her and found Charles crouched on the floor with a screwdriver. He rose and brushed down his jeans. There was an uncomfortable pause while I waited to see if Liz recognised him. Her lips pouted into a funnel, as if she was weighing up her thoughts.

  The seconds dragged by. ‘Charles, this is Liz.’

  Charles offered his hand, extending his arm like a rigid pole, and Liz shook the tips of his fingers.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you.’ The genteel words were at odds with his icy tone.

  ‘She lives on the farm at the top of the road, Tony’s wife,’ I explained.

  ‘Charles, yes, I know,’ she said softly and he flinched, snatching back his hand. Grabbing her handbag off the worktop she stepped backwards. ‘I really must go. Good luck, Miriam, with the nursing home.’

  I followed her out, but she stopped in the doorway and turned. ‘Charles.’

  He’d returned to his crouched position, the screwdriver poised in his hand. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You were the gardener,’ she said, continuing to stare at him, clutching her handbag to her chest. She seemed rooted to the spot.

  With his back to her, he slowly continued to rotate the tool, working hard to loosen the screw. ‘It’s a big garden. Lots to do.’

  ‘Ye-s,’ Liz stuttered, then lifted her voice. ‘I saw you in the grounds once. So you’re back.’ She shrugged, as if the spark of memory lost its relevance. ‘I’m sure Miriam appreciates your help as much as Felicity did.’

  He glanced up at her and fixed his pale eyes on hers. They had gone cold, an almost menacing expression. I’d not seen Charles show any animosity and it unsettled me. He shifted his gaze back to the hinge and squeezed the handle of the screwdriver.

  ‘I do my best,’ he said, and we left the room.

  Liz opened her car door. ‘Anytime you want more eggs, just pop by.’

  I repeated my gratitude regarding the nursing home’s number. She revved the engine and sped down the drive. Unlike the affable Tony, Liz had shown an unusual level of interest in my family, but not in a forthcoming way. As for Charles’s cool reaction to Liz, it left me feeling uneasy, as it did her too.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Charles had gone. I’d questions to ask, a multitude of them buzzing around my head. I massaged my temples, wishing that those puzzles would fly away and leave me alone. But my priority had to be the will and the need to dig into the past and find out why Felicity had chosen me. Why she’d elected to use such an unusual way of bequeathing her home. However, it was as if somebody or something was protecting her, preventing me from seeing the truth. But what?

  The wind howled outside. Coming from the direction of the coast, it rushed across the grounds and attacked the trees, forcing them to bend and twist, before throwing its invisible weight against the walls. An endless whistle emanated from on high where the chimney pots perched on top of the roof. Heachley Hall responded to the gale with creaks and groans, muttering to itself in the language of crumbling mortar and loose tiles. An odd duet – wind and house – and the two did battle, relentlessly and without taking a pause. The wind had somehow penetrated the house, creating a draught about my ankles and my spine goose bumped with the frigidity of that ceaseless current.

  I went back upstairs, picked up my drawing of the farmer with his bandy legs and tore it up. I sketched out another and this time my farmer had straight long legs, as if on stilts. No more distractions: I’d a job to keep and money to earn. The cold house was providing me with nothing but bills and Felicity’s past could wait – what difference would ringing a nursing home make when it was warmth that I needed. I removed the paper with the telephone number from my back pocket and put it to one side.

  ·•●•·

  When
darkness descended, I lit the fire in the dining room, copying Charles’s technique. My first attempt failed. The yellowing newspaper – discovered bundled in the scullery – curled up, turned brown and the tiny flame died. Scuppered by the paper’s fragility, it disintegrated into slivers. For my next attempt, I used printer paper and a few discarded envelopes. I twisted the sheets into substantial twigs. The flame flickered, teasing its prey. Then, as I gently puffed, it caught and spread.

  For a while, I gazed unblinking at the awakening fire and the smoke. I’d nowhere to sit, so no ability to enjoy the rising heat. I circled about the room, my reflection captured by the window each time I completed a circuit. Reaching out, I touched the glass and the cold pane stung my palm. All the warmth of the room was rapidly vanishing through the window. I’d have to buy curtains and a pole.

  The idea sparked another and rather like the thriving fire I envisaged a rug before the marble hearth, a small sofa and a lamp stand. I would sit in the evenings with my iPod and a book in my hand, and the time would pass. I so desperately needed this year in my life to fly past.

  My sublime mental picture vaporised the moment the doorbell rang. The clank echoed through the house. I checked my watch: seven o’clock. On the other side of the frosted window, the outline of a man. Not Charles, too small; not Bert either, too slender.

  I opened the door sufficiently to cast light into the porch. ‘Kev.’ I stepped back to let the plumber in. ‘Glenda said you’d come tomorrow.’

  ‘Aye. I finished earlier than I planned.’ He yanked on his belt buckle. The fidgeting continued – he scratched his scalp as he patrolled the kitchen – before ducking under the worktop to check the layout of the pipes that fed the sink and washing machine.

  The vacant hole, which once housed the oven, drew his attention. ‘You’ve got no cooker,’ he exclaimed. ‘Yea gods woman, you can’t live without a cooker.’ He shook his head and put his hands on his hips. ‘How you going to cook a decent breakfast.’ He ended his reprimand with a grin.

  I replied with an agreeable smile – I missed sizzling sausages. ‘I know. I’m thinking of getting one of those camper stoves.’

  With another shake of his head he inspected the radiator, then plodded upstairs to examine the bathroom. I passed the time waiting for the urn to heat up so I could make him a coffee.

  ‘Right,’ he said, accepting the mug from me. ‘I know you have little money to spend, but frankly, whatever you have would be worth spending. This is what I propose. Get a cooker—’

  ‘A cooker?’

  ‘Aye, a cooker. A Rayburn. It’s like an Aga, you’ve heard of them?’

  I nodded.

  ‘They’re oil burning heaters. It will heat your hot water, and if you can afford it, a few radiators, too. Oh, and it will cook you breakfast.’

  ‘Where would it go?’

  ‘Here, in this hole.’ He pointed at the brickwork. ‘Plenty of space and re-enforced floor. I can pipe the hot water to your taps upstairs in the bathroom which is directly above us.’ He gulped down his coffee, quite unperturbed by the scolding temperature. ‘You can’t survive with that.’ He jabbed a finger at the urn. ‘Oh, and get yourself some convection heaters, oil ones, not these daft fan ones.’

  ‘How much? The Rayburn?’ I held my breath and his answer was what I suspected. Dismayed by the cost, I deflated. I would have to break into my precious savings. Mr Porter’s contingency money wouldn’t stretch to that amount plus the forthcoming bills.

  ‘I don’t know, Kev, it’s a lot—’

  ‘It’s a selling point for the house. Think of it; old style cooker right here. Then you can rip out that useless boiler.’ He referred to the mammoth beast that stood dormant in the corner of the scullery.

  Kevin proceeded to talk about valves and feeder tanks, I cut across his incomprehensible words. ‘When could you fit it?’

  He pulled at a pocket size diary from his jacket. ‘Well, now,’ he mumbled, thumbing through the pages and squinting at his notes. ‘Early November. Can you manage ‘til then? Glenda was convinced you’d freeze to death or something.’

  Glenda’s influence stretched way beyond the confines of a village pub. I had an idea how I might thank her.

  I jerked a thumb at the urn. ‘I can manage.’ Ruth and I would find someway to cope.

  After Kevin had gone, I heated up a ready made meal in the microwave and sat on an old milk crate by the fire – I’d found the makeshift stool under the sink in the scullery. I nibbled on the bland food, opting to eat the portion straight from the container to avoid washing up. Numbers floated around my head. The cost of fitting the cooker and a hot water tank would take a chunk out of my savings. Nevertheless, that was what it was there for, wasn’t it? An emergency pot, which I had imagined would see me through spells when contracts dried up. Fortunately my popularity with authors kept me employed; I could risk spending a little of my savings.

  The flames wavered, losing their potency as they desperately tried to extract the last combustible element out of the diminishing piece of wood. Sod it. I would contact the bank and arrange for a release of cash. Then, once Kevin had sorted out the estimate, I’d order a Rayburn and two convection heaters for the attic rooms. I scraped the plastic container clean with my fork. Pity the carton wasn’t combustible. I couldn’t afford to waste anything. My finances were about to be squeezed tighter.

  Having dismissed money matters, my mind wandered back to my mysterious aunt, Liz had revealed a little more about Felicity and I wasn’t sure I liked what I heard. She painted Felicity as cut-off from the world around her and alone. The idea of a manipulative old woman fitted with the quirkiness of the will but not with my scant recollections of Felicity herself – she’d embodied a warm, colourful spirit. The thought of contacting the nursing home unnerved me. Was I going to find out more things about my aunt that I would rather wish were best left unknown?

  THIRTEEN

  The Rayburn wasn’t the only thing I ordered online in my endeavour to keep busy and distracted from dwelling on Felicity. Opting to have lunch in the pub on the Saturday, I hijacked the Wi-Fi and bought some furnishings for the dining room, including bright orange drapes and a purple rug. I’d gone psychedelic with my colour scheme and not through choice; they’d been the cheapest options for each item I needed. Whether on eBay or some discount online store, I shopped sparingly. By the time I’d finished my stodgy pudding, I’d amassed a sofa, rug, uplighter with a spotlight and enormous curtains to cover up the draughty window. The pole I’d have to buy from the hardware store.

  After lunch I drove to King’s Lynn. The traffic was horrendous, a nightmare of barging cars hounding each other for a tiny space on the road. After only a week of country lanes, I’d adapted to the rural life far quicker than I’d anticipated.

  I purchased the curtain pole and hooks then armed with my sample hinge, I identified a reasonable match. In the kitchen section, a range of door handles tempted me and unable to resist, I bought a dozen brass knobs that possessed sufficient antique styling to fit in with the cupboard doors and with the simplicity I preferred.

  I left the hinges and doorknobs in the shed for Charles. He’d removed all the doors by the end of Friday and stacked them against the wall ready for the varnishing stage. I admired his meticulously workmanship: he’d sanded them into smooth surfaces, removing the tarnished lacquer and accompanying stains.

  He didn’t appear on Saturday. Even handymen had the weekend off. Somewhere, he was having a life, relaxing with his mates or going by his introverted nature, maybe he preferred to remain at home, the location of which remained a mystery. He’d no car nor bicycle, and obviously came and went by foot. Nearby, he’d said, which meant sufficiently close to walk. Yet I’d not seen many houses between the village and the farm, only a few smallholdings that once might have been part of Heachley Hall’s tenancy.

  After my Saturday shopping trip, I spent Sunday morning cleaning the library. I should have been working on my illust
rations – time was tight – but the house beckoned and I frittered away a couple of hours chasing the white dust about the floorboards and wiping down the remaining shelves. Pleased with my efforts, I unpacked a box of books I’d brought from Chelmsford and created a dinky library on one shelf. Apart from those few books, there was nothing else in the room.

  The library, along with the drawing room, looked out onto the formal garden to the rear of the property. Once a sweeping lawn with terraces, unwanted growth had overburdened the neglected landscaping – brambles and bindweed swamped the remnants of flowerbeds. The garden resembled a meadow. The rain stayed away, and after lunch, I heaved on my Wellington boots and ventured out to explore. I’d been at Heachley Hall a week and was on the cusp of my first outdoor adventure.

  I began my trek in the smaller garden that had once borne the weight of the southern aspect of the house. Below my feet, underneath the soil, lay the cellar. Tracking along the dwarf walls, that formed the boundary of the garden, I wondered if they represented the original perimeter of the house. If so, they outlined reasonable sized rooms. Beyond the low walls, there was a small forest of spiky monkey puzzles, camellia, tangled honeysuckle and dense rhododendrons, that in the spring would burst into a flower and display a multitude of colours. The evergreens formed an impassable barrier and buttressed the outer wall of the estate.

  Amongst the rhododendrons, rogue trees had sprouted out of old stumps: immature and thin about the trunk, they’d grown in isolation. Tony had referred to the damage the fire had done to the woodlands. I guessed I’d found the evidence.

  Turning my back on the evergreens, I wandered towards the back of the house to admire the bay window of the drawing room and the smaller library one. I skirted the edge of the larger overgrown lawn and my boots protected my shanks from the long wet grass and other pervasive weeds. I’d need an industrial sized lawn mower to undo the years of neglect.

  As I continued to walk around the house, I stumbled upon the trap door for the coal chute under the window of the scullery. The bolted doors were too small for a man to squeeze through. I gave them a kick and was pleased to note my foot hadn’t smashed through them.