The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  Next to the back door were the outbuildings that were collected around the small cobbled yard. Behind the garage was the wooden ladder that Charles had mentioned; it appeared in good condition and usable. I wasn’t sure about the ramifications on my part if he fell from the roof, but he’d offered and I needed his help.

  To this side of the house, especially around the sheds, the trees closed in and swayed over the part of the roof where my attic space occupied the corner. Tilting my head back, I saw additional shuttered windows next to the two rooms I used. There had to be other rooms up there. I suspected they’d been accessed using a stairwell eaten by the fire. It meant there were attic rooms with no access point and, oddly, nobody had bothered to knock a doorway through the wall. Possibly a hundred or so years with no visitors. Rather freaked out, I added it to the pile of not-my-problem and carried on my explorations.

  Beyond the outbuildings, the estate stretched out for many acres and much of it woodland. Fighting for space the warped and gnarled oaks formed a disfigured arboretum of ancient trees, whilst their neighbours – pine trees and firs – stood orderly and perpendicular. I weaved between the trees, trampling through undergrowth of mulch and stumbling on the hidden roots.

  The waning light cowered behind overhanging branches. The gloominess sucked the saturation out of the colours. What should have been a deluge of ambers and lemon yellows dancing in the daylight was a dull blur. Across the trunks of fallen trees a patchwork of lichen covered the bark, but even their palette of greens and saffrons lost out to the grey soup that had descended over Heachley Wood.

  I looked over my shoulder to find the house had quickly vanished. If there had been a path leading through the woods, I couldn’t discern the route it traversed. My breath fogged the air, steaming out of my lips and nostrils in white puffs and it wasn’t the only thing obscuring my vision. The mist rolled towards me like watery waves; first, undulating about my ankles, then the wisps of white surged up to my knees. I’d not seen fog like it before. My experience of foggy days were urban based and rarely so uniformly dense. Glancing up, I’d lost the tops of the trees and the cloudy sky beyond.

  As I soldiered on deeper into the ancient woods, the trees closed in tighter; their branches tangled together into a single mesh of twisted vines and dangling ivy. Icy droplets of mist wet my face and settled onto my coat, and the enveloping cold thwarted my progress. I swivelled on the spot. A haze of whiteness had formed a shifting barrier, plugging the gaps between the trunks and hiding the mass of trees as if to usurp the forest’s natural authority.

  By the house I’d been sure I’d felt a light breeze, but not in the midst of trees, where nothing swayed or disturbed the opaque fog. The penetrating frost had stiffened the leaves, contorting them into unnatural poses and the still air was heavy with condensation. I remained glued to the spot, unsure what direction to take next. Did I go back to the house or on towards the perimeter stonewall? It had to be somewhere nearby.

  The blanket of dew continued to swirl, almost forcing me to retreat away from my intended destination – the farthest point of the estate. I heard a twig snap, then another. A crack, crack of broken branches. I’d no idea where the sound came from. One second from the left, the next the right. I spun, pursuing the sound with my ears leaning in different directions.

  Snap. Crunch. The splintering of a pinecone?

  My heart raced and I began to walk backwards. My heels caught on the buried roots and I stumbled and crashed onto my backside.

  I exclaimed a string of curses and pressed my palms into the soft ground. The needles slithered over my fingers like tiny worms, rapidly burying my hand, while the dewy wetness seeped through my clothing. I scrambled up.

  My heart pounded, its pulse thrumming in my ears and I tore through the trees, hurrying back to the house, away from the strange noises. My Wellingtons grew heavy. Dead leaves stuck to the soles and hampered my efforts. The oppressive mist continued to battle me and I batted it aside with my hands. I’d not realised I’d come this far into the woods; the return journey seemed longer, more arduous.

  Having lost sight of the house I halted and listened, but the only sounds I heard were my wheezes and chattering teeth. At last, the miasma parted and I caught a glimpse of familiar stone and a slate roof; one of the outbuildings, possibly Charles’s shed.

  The mist thinned and disintegrated into nothing, and within a few metres of the house, it vanished. The afternoon light, which I’d convinced myself had turned to dusk, lit up the flintstones turning them silvery. Colour returned to the fallen leaves and the grass was once again a lush green. I dashed over to the back door, flung it open and slammed it shut behind me. Leaning against the door, I turned the key in the lock and closed my eyes.

  It took a few minutes to catch my breath. I kicked off my boots, and with shaking fingers, I removed my coat and switched on the lights. For a while I stood before the fire I’d lit in the dining room and warmed my hands, until a burning sensation penetrated my cold fingertips and my thundering heart calmed.

  Unsettled by my experience, I struggled to keep my thoughts focused on work. Images of swirling fog and the possibility of a strange presence lurking within it supplanted the comical farm characters I should be drawing. Defeated, I trudged downstairs and tried Ruth’s number. No answer. With the phone still in my hand, I impulsively rang the Rose and Crown. Unsure as to my motives, when Bert answered, I stumbled over my words. In the background there was chatter and a football commentator blaring out from the TV.

  ‘Sorry,’ I stammered. ‘I went into Heachley Wood and, just. It’s silly but I heard weird noises, like something was in there with me.’

  ‘Rabbits,’ he suggested.

  ‘Except, do they crunch on pinecones? It sounded heavier. Solitary.’

  ‘Ah. Muntjac then.’

  ‘Muntjac?’ I’d no idea what he meant.

  ‘Deer. They’re common in these parts. Probably came through a hole somewhere. They like forests.’

  ‘Deer?’ It made sense, I supposed, the sound of footfalls. How big were muntjac?

  ‘Aye. Some of the farmers take a pop shot at them from time to time. Tony has a gun licence, he’s been known to shoot a few.’

  ‘Shoot them? Why? Deer are beautiful animals.’

  ‘They make a fine venison stew. We sometimes offer it on our menu, except,’ he paused and snorted, ‘I blame Bambi. Nobody likes to eat deer, not the hoity-toity types.’

  I didn’t take offence, because I was quite unprepared for what lurked in the woods. I apologised for disturbing him with my impulsive call.

  ‘If you want advice, just ring. It’s no bother.’ His kindly comment dismissed my embarrassment. I said goodnight sweetly and hung up.

  Muntjac in the woods seemed a good enough explanation. But, for now, I’d trust the woods to take care of themselves and I’d stay in the house.

  ·•●•·

  The next morning, working hard on my drawing, I rethought my decision to ignore the nursing home and questions about Felicity. My adventure in the garden had once again poked my natural curiosity. I refused to be daunted by fog and the noises of furtive creatures. The reticence, which had kept me from exploring Felicity’s past, now seemed excessive and over-thought. I had every right to know the reason why I was inhabiting an abandoned house, bound by the stipulation of a year and a day.

  I shuffled through my papers and found the note with the nursing home’s number. It rang and rang, then switched to a recorded message, informing the caller to ring a different number. I noted the number down. It had a different dialling code that I didn’t recognise as local.

  This time my call was answered after two rings.

  ‘Twilight Care Homes.’ The woman’s voice sang. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I was after Beechwood Care Home.’

  ‘Beechwood.’ She paused. ‘The facility closed in April. All the residents were transferred. Can I send you details of our other homes? They all provide servic
e to an excellent standard.’

  ‘Actually, no, that’s not what I’m after. I wanted to trace the details of a resident who stayed at Beechwood.’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t release confidential information about any of the residents.’

  ‘She was my great-aunt and she died in February at Beechwood.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said swiftly.

  ‘Thank you. What it is, I didn’t have a chance to see her before she died and I’m trying to trace any belongings she might have had left. I only found out recently that she’d died and I’m her sole beneficiary.’

  ‘One moment.’

  I waited for a response while listening to muffled voices.

  ‘When Beechwood closed, all their records were transferred to the head office here in Peterborough. As for unclaimed personal possessions, I’m sorry we don’t know what might have happened to them. Usually a home will store items for six months, but you said she died back in February, and then the closure,’ she hesitated. ‘Is it possible somebody else collected her things?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The will’s executor didn’t mention anything.’

  ‘Look,’ I heard a pen tapping in the background. ‘I could give you the email address of the former manager of Beechwood. She works at another home, not one of ours. She might remember your aunt.’

  I was gracious with my thank yous, even if I was disappointed with the lack of information. I wrote down the email address and the name Mrs Eva Kendal.

  After a brief outing to buy bread and milk, I dropped into the Rose and Crown to compose the email on my mobile, pleading the case of a sad niece in desperate need of information about her long lost aunt, requesting she contacted me by telephone if it was possible. Probably exaggerating the sentiment of the message, a touch of guilt caused me to pause before hitting the send button.

  By the end of the day I’d heard nothing back and as Thursday drew to a close, I concluded my attempt to find Felicity’s missing box was doomed to failure. Mrs Kendal, for whatever reason, hadn’t responded to my email.

  FOURTEEN

  During the week, I’d tried to put aside my unnerving trip outdoors. Regardless of what had caused the noises in the wood, it hadn’t followed me back to the house. However, while I contemplated my farmyard illustrations, my concentration wandered and I battled with the depictions conjured up by my vivid imagination – the exotic mists with tentacles and claws. The scary images reminded me of my vulnerability – living alone in an empty house – however, for an illustrator, they were fantastic fodder for inspiration.

  Downstairs, Charles came and went in his haphazard style and I would occasionally bump into him in the kitchen. If our paths didn’t collide by the cupboards or in the hallway, I felt a touch bereft as if only he alone could conquer any twinges of loneliness. On Wednesday, with the sun shining through the windows and the sky a marine blue, he announced his plan to fix the roof tiles. While he clambered over the roofs, I anchored the bottom of the ladder with the sturdy weight of my foot. He moved with agility and navigated the apexes of the gables by swinging his body around the chimneystacks. His dark hair glinted in the bright light as he precariously balanced on a slope and stepped across the space like a tightrope walker. I alternated between holding my breath and gasping at his apparent lack of fear. If he fell – the thought was not bearable. Such a disaster meant I would have lost a newfound friend, somebody who provided me with much needed company and a connection to Felicity and my family.

  I shouted up on one occasion to warn him of his hazardous location. He cheerfully told me not to worry. ‘I’ve been up here before.’

  He slotted the dislodged tiles back into place and even volunteered to clear out the muck in the blocked guttering; a deluge of water overflowed every time there was a torrential shower.

  On Friday morning, he put the final touches to the cupboard doors. Each unit – half a metre wide by a metre high – had been neatly hung, aligned and evenly distributed, forming two rows of six cupboards. A layer of varnish glazed the doors and the grain in the oak stood out in a breath-taking array of patterns. I ran my hand over the smooth finish, examined the brass hinges and knobs, which although old fashioned in design, were perfect for the antiquated surroundings of Heachley Hall.

  I complimented the handyman on his efforts and quality of workmanship.

  He ducked his head and shrugged off my compliment. ‘Thank you, Miriam. I appreciate your kind words.’

  The awkward moment continued when I had to pay him. Cooped upstairs in the attic, I’d little idea of his schedule or hours of work. Charles shuffled on his feet, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tried his best to look most uncomfortable while I tapped away on my mobile’s calculator. The previous day, during the grocery shopping in Hunstanton, I’d drawn a fair size wad of cash out of the bank’s machine.

  ‘Maybe four, perhaps five hours a day?’ I suggested. ‘As an average.’

  He scratched his head. ‘Probably. I don’t keep track of time, not while I’m busy.’

  ‘A bad habit of mine, too.’ I concurred. ‘My friends don’t think I have a watch.’ I calculated the amount – a hundred and fifty pounds – and he accepted the payment with little fuss, rolling the notes into a bundle and jamming them into his pocket.

  We discussed what needed doing next and I remarked his sanding and staining skills would be handy for sorting out the battered wooden stairs.

  ‘A mighty amount of wood,’ he declared, from his position at the bottom of the staircase. He counted the steps with an outstretched finger, calculating the effort involved.

  I remembered his makeshift sanding block. ‘I will have to get you an electric sander. You can’t do it by hand.’

  His eyebrows furrowed and he pulled a grimace. ‘Electric?’

  ‘I’m sure I could buy a cheap one. I’m also sourcing some replacement tiles for the floor.’ I pointed at the cracked tile by my foot. ‘Also I wanted to paint the dining room, which I can do myself, and once the plumber has finished, I was thinking about painting the kitchen and bathroom, but I might not have the time.’

  ‘Plumber?’ Another quizzical expression spread over his face.

  ‘Kevin is coming the week after next to install a hot water system based around a cooker range.’

  I showed him where the Rayburn would go. ‘I can have fresh hot meals, instead of re-heated junk. Unfortunately, I can’t offer Ruth anything special when she comes for the week. She arrives tomorrow.’

  ‘The week?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to do the stairs for a couple of weeks. I’d get in the way.’

  It made sense and I couldn’t persuade him otherwise. As much as I looked forward to seeing Ruth, I would miss Charles’s interludes, the way he smiled when I said hello or the little pucker of his lips when he concentrated on a task.

  ‘I’ll come back in two weeks.’ He paused by the back door. ‘You’ll need more wood to burn. I’ll go chop some now before the light fades.’

  I watched him from the scullery door as he ambled into Heachley Wood, swinging the axe, quite unperturbed by the gloomy destination. In the distance, I could see the white haze, waiting to greet him and it sent a shiver down my spine.

  ‘Charles.’ I called out, but he kept going. I slipped on my Wellingtons and bolted after him. ‘Charles, wait.’

  He spun, snapped his back straight and tightened his grip on the axe at the same time. ‘Miriam. What’s wrong?’

  I caught my breath; alarmed by his rigid stance. ‘Have you ever seen muntjac in the woods?’ I asked breathlessly.

  He shifted his grip on the axe into a looser one. ‘No, I can’t say that I have, but they are shy creatures and unlikely to stray near to the house.’

  ‘I came out here, on Sunday, and heard noises, like footfalls. Bert thought they were caused by deer.’ I expected him to laugh and I was, in retrospect, em
barrassed by the need to ring the pub for reassurance. ‘I was just, chatting with him,’ I added, lamely.

  Charles merely cocked his head to one side and his eyes smiled, creasing at the corners. ‘All sorts inhabit the woods – badgers, foxes, rabbits – they are not quiet.’ He stared up at the branches, then back at me. ‘In the spring, a chorus of birds will sing from dawn to dusk. You’re quite safe, have no fear. Just watch the roots, they can send you flying.’ He kicked the exposed root by his boot.

  ‘The mist.’ I’d seen the way it had behaved, coiling its antennas about my legs, then chasing me out of the woods. How to explain that to him?

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It felt alive.’

  ‘Feeling alive and being alive are different things.’ He reached out to a nearby tree and spread his fingers over the bark. ‘Does a tree feel this, my touch?’

  I snorted. ‘Of course not. It doesn’t have a nervous system or brain.’

  ‘Yet, it is alive.’ He let his hand drop to his side.

  ‘Until you chop it down.’

  ‘Would it know – the sap, the bark, and the leaves – would they know they’d been cut off from the roots that sustain them? They have no feelings.’ There was an expression in his face that I couldn’t quite pin down. He’d lost the smile lines and gained something else – sadness?

  I hugged my arms. The branches above us groaned and bent low as if to listen. His explanation re-enforced my apparent weakness: yet again, I had dipped into the art of personification and perhaps it was an artist’s natural trait, to give life to objects in the same way I would to a human being. ‘I imagined the mist is alive, nothing else. But, there are no unnatural happenings here in this wood. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying you have the ability to imagine it is alive. The mist never knows if it is or isn’t.’ He gave me a crooked smile and took a couple of steps, before pointing up at the sky. ‘The light,’ he reminded.