The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  ‘Yes, sorry. I shouldn’t detain you.’

  I didn’t see him again that day and consequently, I’d forgotten to pay him for chopping the wood.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘He’s done a brilliant job,’ Ruth said, as she admired the glimmering cupboards. ‘Pity I’ve missed meeting him.’

  ‘He finished yesterday. He’ll be back in a couple of weeks to do the staircase.’ I poured coffee into two mugs.

  She clapped her hands together. ‘So, what next?’

  I had a list and I ran my eye over the piece of paper. ‘How about we take down those dreadful drapes in the drawing room and burn them?’

  ‘Sounds fantastic. I love building bonfires and it’s nearly Guy Fawkes Night!’

  ‘Remember, remember, the fifth of November,’ we chanted, giggling, as I tossed a lighted match onto the heap of disintegrated curtains. The fire in the middle of the front lawn blazed with autumnal shades and the smoke billowed across the grass, fanning the trees.

  ‘I hope the sparks don’t catch,’ I fretted, remembering the previous fire.

  ‘Too damp,’ said Ruth. ‘In any case, that mist will put them out.’

  The plume of grey collided with the fog and the two waltzed, forming a smog, until the mist smothered the heavy smoke particles. As the fire crackled, snacking on the dregs of shredded curtain fabric, the smoke lost its battle and floated to the ground. Gradually, there was nothing left for the bonfire to consume and we kicked the fallen leaves on to the glowing embers until they smouldered.

  I shivered, and peering up at the clearing skies, I spied the brightest stars punctuating the darkening backdrop. ‘Might have frost tonight. I’ll light the fire in the dining room.’

  We trudged into the house leaving behind a heap of ash and charred remains.

  ‘You’ll have to change the names of the rooms,’ Ruth said, hanging her coat on the end of the bannister rail.

  ‘Why?’ I slammed the front door shut and the bell above jingled.

  ‘Dining room with no table?’ She grinned. ‘Drawing room. Sounds terribly posh.’ She pinched her nose in and puckered her lips, trying to pull a snooty face.

  I giggled. ‘All right. How about large completely useless room.’

  ‘It’s big enough to play badminton in—’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I huffed, although I’d wondered about a table-tennis table.

  ‘Just think you could turn this place into a sports club. Tennis courts outside—’

  I gave a gentle shove and chivvied her into the kitchen. ‘At least the sofa arrived or else we’d nowhere to sit in the evening.’

  ‘You spoil me,’ she mocked, then changed her tone to a pleading one. ‘Let me spoil you. Pub for food?’

  Later, with both of us more than tipsy, we staggered back from the pub, walking the mile or so up the dark lane with a torch shining a path in front of us. We dragged our weary limbs up the two staircases to the attic room. Approaching the top of the second flight, we both froze. Somewhere below something was rattling furiously and with energy.

  ‘What’s that?’ Ruth whispered, peering down the narrow stairwell.

  I tried to ignore the familiar sound, although it seemed worse than usual. ‘The draught. None of the windows fit snuggly and without curtains there seems to be a natural ventilation system.’ I nudged her and she resumed her climb.

  ‘I could never live here,’ she muttered.

  The noise grew louder, almost frantic, and it seemed to chase after our feet. We hurried and stumbled over the remaining steps. Once inside the bedroom, I kicked the door shut. ‘There, quiet now.’

  Standing breathless and still, we listened. Silence.

  ‘Oh God,’ moaned Ruth, collapsing on the airbed on the floor. ‘I must be pissed.’

  ‘Me, too.’ I flopped backwards onto the bed. ‘I need to get away from here. It’s going to stay dry tomorrow, so how about a trip to the sea?’

  ‘What about your list?’ Ruth rolled onto her side.

  ‘Sod it. Fresh sea air is what I need.’

  Ruth yawned and hiccoughed at the same time. ‘Sounds, good,’ she slurred, her eyelids drooping.

  ·•●•·

  The fresh air idea had merits up until the point we began walking along the beach. We braced ourselves before each gust of icy wind, the approaching whoosh of each squall heralded its buffeting arrival. With a scarf wrapped about my neck, my ears swathed by a woollen hat and fleecy gloves protecting my hands, the wind still managed to chafe and penetrate all the futile layers until it assaulted my body.

  ‘Fuck,’ I muttered, as I bowed my head and fought against the next blast of cold air.

  Ruth, who had borrowed another of my scarves, flapped her arms up and down. ‘Do you know you can see the sunset across the sea, even though technically we’re on the east coast?’

  I pictured the map of East Anglia in my head and sure enough, she was right, Old Hunstanton faced west, not north or east. ‘Pity the sun is hiding.’

  ‘Let’s keep walking,’ she suggested, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets.

  The beach was too long for us to explore thoroughly on a bitter autumnal day. Rain had compressed the sand and our shoes sank into the grains, leaving behind a trail of soft footprints. On our right, the waves crashed effortlessly onto the shores. To our left, the cliff face offered little protection. Weary of battling wet sand and the wind, I halted. Facing the wall of chalk and limestone stripes, the layers triggered a wave of butterflies in my belly.

  ‘I’ve been here before.’ I rotated, taking in the view, and the landscape. ‘Yes, I have.’

  My nose dripped and the cold bit into my toes. The salt air had whipped my cheeks until they felt raw. I didn’t remember the cold, instead, I had a recollection of blue skies and blazing sunshine. ‘I was holding somebody’s hand. I must have been small; I had to look up.’

  ‘Your parents, your dad?’

  I started pacing circles in the sand and tucked my chin under the edge of my scarf.

  ‘No, no. It was Felicity.’ The picture I was constructing in my mind took more shape and the details crystallised as I weaved colour into the image. The smell of seaweed cinched my nostrils – that had been there, too.

  ‘Felicity,’ Ruth exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said excitedly and I hurried to describe my memories. ‘She was trying to explain to me about the sun setting, just like you did now, except, I didn’t understand the compass points back then, too young. Her hand pointed across the shimmering water and I shaded my eyes.’

  ‘You’re sure it was Felicity and not your mum?’

  ‘She wore a sari. How could I forget her clothes. She dressed unashamedly – a bright yellow sari. She loved the sun.’ I smiled. ‘Funny thing memories, what triggers their return.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re remembering her, but I can’t take this ridiculous cold a moment longer. Let’s find somewhere to eat.’ She turned on her heel and retraced her footprints in the sand.

  We argued, politely, about who should pay for the food in the lighthouse café. She won, as Ruth generally did.

  I sliced up my sausages and stabbed a piece with the fork prongs. The cold gave me a good appetite. Ruth rolled the sausage across her plate and toyed with it.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ she said.

  I glanced up and she had a pensive expression on her face. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve met somebody.’

  The fork made it halfway to my mouth and it remained there, hovering expectantly. ‘Who?’ She hadn’t mentioned anyone before now.

  ‘He’s divorced, two sons aged ten and eleven. He’s a teacher and called Mick.’ She rattled off the details, then pressed her teacup to her lips and sipped.

  I didn’t want to appear surprised, but I struggled to hide my stunned expression. I blinked several times. ‘When?’

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure – a few weeks. We met at a union meeting.
We’re both reps.’

  ‘So it’s serious?’ I chewed on my food, ruminating on her revelation.

  ‘That’s why I’m telling you. I feel awful—’

  ‘Why?’ Her last word jarred. She’d given up her time to help me.

  ‘Because I’d told you I would come up for weekends, but things are progressing and now I don’t think I’ll be able to commit to as many. It’s the only time I get to see him.’

  I put down my knife and fork and leaned forward. ‘I’m so pleased for you. Go for it. I can cope up here, plenty to keep me busy work wise. I’ll pop down to Chelmsford now and again, we can meet up.’

  ‘Sure?’ She held the teacup tight in her hands; avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Yes. Good grief, why wouldn’t I be?’ I picked up my cutlery and continued to eat. Ruth’s shoulders relaxed and she blew out a long breath through her lips.

  ‘Thanks. I’ve been dreading telling you.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t have done.’

  She tucked into her food as if her appetite had been switched back on. Mine disintegrated. I’d lied. I would miss her weekend visits. I’d been banking on them for my sanity’s sake. But I couldn’t blame her decision. Older than me, she couldn’t afford to waste time, not if she wanted the children she longed to have. We ate in silence. Ruth scraped her plate clean and I left my second sausage chopped up and uneaten.

  We abandoned the idea of beach combing and drove into nearby Hunstanton to explore the small town. We found the library – I noted down the opening times – and a sports facility Ruth reckoned I should join, if only because it gave me somewhere warm to go and a chance for a swim.

  ‘Too expensive,’ I declared, after scanning their membership fees.

  When the light started to fade, we returned to Heachley Hall, sat on my recently acquired second hand sofa and embraced the fire’s warmth whilst chatting about Mick. With encouraging smiles, I showed nothing but enthusiasm for her new boyfriend.

  The weather proved more suitable for outdoor activities on the Monday; the wind had dropped and the sun peeped out from behind the clouds. Ruth and I spent the morning raking up the crisp leaves then burning them on yet another bonfire.

  My clothes and hair reeked of smoke, Ruth’s too, but she didn’t complain. She poked the fire with a long branch, before making trips into the overgrown rhododendrons to break off dead twigs and smaller branches to add to the pyre. She had her back to the house, but I didn’t.

  A shadow moved. I blinked, uncertain whether it was a creature or a person. However, even with the swirling white plume of smoke, I was sure I’d seen something next to the outbuilding closest to the garden – another disused stable. One of its walls helped form a narrow passageway running down the side of the house.

  ‘I think I might have seen someone.’ I circled around the bonfire. ‘I’ll go check.’

  ‘Charles?’ Ruth called out as I hurried across the overgrown meadow that constituted the back garden.

  Wellington boots afford little protection above the knee. My trousers were sodden and due to the length of the grass, the wetness had soaked through my jeans, cladding my thighs in a cold jacket. The chafing effects of the icy denim burnt and hindered my pace. I dashed into Charles’s shed, but there was no sign of him there. Doubling back, I crossed the courtyard and opened the back door.

  ‘Charles!’ I shouted, then held my breath to listen for a reply. I walked through the scullery, the kitchen and out into the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, I yelled his name again.

  Nothing. I must have imagined something in the smoke, an illusion created by the heat haze. I frowned – last night my ears had been playing tricks. Today it was my eyes. I re-entered the scullery and walked passed the cellar door. It was ajar and the faulty bolt was missing. I searched the floor at my feet, but there was no sign of it, only the familiar white dust that crept up the steps from the cellar.

  I cautiously stuck my head around and peered into the gloomy stairwell. The darkness proved impenetrable, I couldn’t even see the door at the bottom. I puffed out my cheeks, contemplating whether to go down to investigate. I ought to check the lower door was shut as leaving it open would only add to the existing draught.

  I stomped down the steps, making my presence felt in order to scare away any mice. The temperature dropped and my breath mushroomed in front of my face: my own personal mist. I touched the wall with my fingertips, using it to guide my descent. I hadn’t brought the torch; I couldn’t remember where I’d put it after last night.

  Putting my foot down, I misjudged the distance. My knee and hip jarred on the stone floor. I’d reached the bottom before I’d expected. I yelped as the pain jolted up my leg. Limping forward, I reached out and poked the air with my forefinger, searching for the door. The cellar breathed on me. An expulsion of air whistled passed my ears, and with it I heard the scurrying of the dreaded mice and the gentle flapping of the bats’ wings. Still no door. I edged half a foot closer and jabbed forwards with my finger until I hit the door. Fumbling, I hunted around the wooden panel for the doorknob and the moment I found it, I yanked on it. As I slammed the door shut, the cellar expelled a final puff of frigid air.

  I ran up the stairs, shut the upper door and leant on it.

  ‘Was it Charles?’ Ruth asked when I went back outside.

  ‘No.’ Standing over the fire I rubbed my trembling hands together. ‘Ruth, have you been in the cellar?’

  ‘No, well, not the actual cellar. While you were in the bathroom, I went down the steps, but it was so bleeding dark and you said there are mice down there, and I’m not great with mice, so I bottled and came back up.’

  ‘You didn’t open the second door at the base of the stairs?’

  ‘Another door? Didn’t see one.’ She shovelled a load of dead foliage onto the fire. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I shrugged. ‘Just, the door was ajar.’

  ‘Oh, I might not have shut it.’ She grimaced, mouthing ‘sorry’. ‘You should mend the bolt.’

  ‘It’s gone, fallen off.’

  ‘Wasn’t when I opened it. I noticed the missing screw.’

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Oh. Strange. I’ve only just noticed it’s gone. Perhaps, the other screws got worked loose,’ I peered over my shoulder at the house with its grim walls that were especially dire when framed against the backdrop of greying skies.

  I jerked and snatched a quick intake of air. Another shadow – this time the upstairs window: Felicity’s bedroom. I wasn’t going to stoop to the superstitious claptrap about ghosts. The house was unoccupied, devoid of human company. I’d probably seen a reflection of the trees in the glass.

  ‘I’m going crazy. Forget it. The bolt’s got kicked under something in the scullery. I’ll look later.’

  I mimicked my restless thoughts by kicking the plastic bags by my feet and remembered why I’d brought them outside in the first place. ‘Let’s go pick apples.’ I scooped up the bags.

  ‘Sound’s good.’ Ruth dropped her makeshift poker and I handed her a couple of bags. I followed her and just to make sure, I glanced over my shoulder at the window. Of course there wasn’t anything to see but silvery glass.

  We collected enough edible apples to fill several carrier bags.

  ‘I’ll store them in one of the sheds. They might last through the winter.’

  We dragged the bags through the overgrown lawn and deposited them in an abandoned outbuilding, opting to hang the handles from convenient hooks in the hope the fruit would remain out of reach of the mice and other vermin.

  For lunch I heated up ready-made soup in the microwave. Afterwards, we returned outside to clear the paths and cut back the ivy from the windows and porch. The fire burnt for most of the day, filling the air with a constant acrid smell until the smoke irritated my throat. The ash floated on the invisible currents as if reluctant to land. Its passage – the swirl of white particles – resembled like a flurry of s
nowflakes.

  After dusk, using hot water from the urn and a large washing up bowl, we took turns bathing before the fireplace. I ached in numerous unseen places and my palms had again developed callouses. I’d not drawn for days, consequently, I’d slipped behind my schedule. However, time spent with Ruth was important. I needed companionship and together we’d ticked off a substantial part of my immediate to-do list. The other, longer list, the one buried in my head, I ignored.

  On Tuesday, we concentrated on the bedrooms that I’d repeatedly neglected to attend to. Silvery cobwebs hung from the ceilings and across the windows, creating lacy curtains of tiny spindles. A shame to destroy them. Layers of dust covered the wooden boards. Good quality floorboards, that if cleaned and polished wouldn’t necessarily require carpets to hide them. The walls were a different matter. I picked at the peeling wallpaper and the flaked paintwork peeked out from behind the tears.

  Ruth swept the floor with the big brush while I attacked the cobwebs with a tea towel hooked onto the end of a long stick. She left the room to empty the dustpan.

  ‘What’s this for?’ she shouted.

  In the hallway I found her examining the closet door. ‘Cubbyhole, storeroom.’

  She gripped the doorknob and pulled it.

  ‘Sticks a bit, I said.

  The door sprung open and Ruth stuck her head in the pokey little room. ‘Odd place for a storage room.’

  ‘I thought that, then, after I went into the cellar, I realised this once wouldn’t have been here. Where the door and closet are now, it would have been an extension of the hallway leading to the missing wing and the extra bedrooms. For some reason, when they blocked this wall, they created a closet.’

  She held the doorknob and gave it a twist. ‘Odd.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a doorknob on the inside.’ She opened the door wider.

  I stared at the knob – a round brass one – just like the one on the outside, but not a perfect match. Whereas the outer one had tarnished, the inner one was shiny. ‘That’s weird. I don’t remember it being there before.’