The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  Ruth rattled the handle. ‘You probably wouldn’t be looking for it. I mean you’d have to be on the inside to notice.’

  Regardless, it seemed odd that I hadn’t noticed and I’d been sure I’d taken a good look inside. I sniffed. The air in the closet was heavy, as if weighted down by time. On the outside, the dust had collected, but inside more lay on the boards and shelves. Ruth stepped back and gave the door a shove. It lingered, as if harbouring an indecisive soul, then slammed shut.

  We both jumped back. ‘It’s just a stupid closet,’ I said quickly, refusing to engage her in the haunted house theory. ‘Best get back to it,’ I murmured.

  Ruth went back to sweeping while I chased the spiders away.

  Having worked hard for two days I drove Ruth to Norwich for a day out. We visited the cathedral and castle before touring the shops for some retail therapy. My shopping list was unfortunately long and I couldn’t afford much of it. I treated myself to warm clothes, a pair of leather boots that were on sale, and a few kitchen items in preparation for the arrival of the cooker the next day: pans, a casserole dish and other essential implements. As I watched the amounts stretch my credit card closer to its limit, I bit my tongue and halted the despairing gasp.

  Ruth had the good grace to keep quiet about my money stresses. She deflected the topic during the journey back by talking about her forthcoming book. My head buzzed with ideas for illustrations. However, first I had to finish my farmyard tale.

  The cooker arrived late Thursday morning. The deliverymen had taken several wrong turns before finding Heachley Hall. ‘Your place isn’t on the satnav,’ the driver grumbled. ‘Lane is too narrow.’

  They’d reversed the truck up the drive and wheeled the huge cooker in on casters. I showed them the space under the old oven slot where it was to go. One of the men installed the Rayburn, but didn’t do the plumbing for the hot water; Kevin would do that. The engineer ensured the hotplates heated up and demonstrated how to control the thermostat. The smell of burning oil and hot metal quickly filled the kitchen.

  ‘It will settle, the smell,’ the engineer reassured, packing up his tools.

  He left a manual, cookbook and half-drunk mug of coffee. By late afternoon, seated on two old crates and pouring over the cookery book, Ruth and I basked in a pleasant swathe of heat.

  ‘We should go shopping for ingredients and make a casserole,’ I suggested, tossing the book onto the worktop. The lovely cooker seemed an extravagance in my empty house.

  ‘This was a good decision, Miriam. I know you’re worried about money, but down the road, you’ll get it all back and more.’

  ‘God, I hope you’re right.’ I rolled up my sleeves. ‘I’m hot!’

  Ruth burst out laughing and I, relieved at last to have some semblance of a normal kitchen, joined in.

  Our last day together and we spent it washing down walls. Eventually, I would paper over the cracks and redecorate my newly established sitting room. By late afternoon, Ruth announced it was time for her inevitable departure. I buried my disappointment behind a facade of bravado. I didn’t think for a minute she believed it.

  We hugged, and I heaped gratitude in her ear. ‘You gave up your holiday for me!’

  She patted my back before releasing me. ‘Come down for Christmas.’

  ‘I’ll be at Aunt Valerie’s’

  ‘After that. Come for New Year.’

  Thank goodness, it meant I wouldn’t be with my aunt’s family for the whole duration of the festive season. I squeezed her hands in mine, demonstrating my appreciation with tear pricked eyes. My throat had seized up and words failed me.

  The gravel crunched under the wheels of her car and the headlights lit up the imposing gates leading to the lane. Once the sound of the engine faded, I went indoors and bolted the front door. I leant against it and listened. Nothing. Not a peep. For once, the house didn’t creak, rattle or groan. There was no doubt in my mind; I was quite alone.

  SIXTEEN

  Since Ruth’s departure I’d been catching up on work. With the exception of trips downstairs for food, I spent my weekend cloistered in the attic. My only outing had been to the Rose and Crown to hook up to their Wi-Fi and download my latest emails. Scanning the list, I’d hoped for news from the nursing home, but still nothing, which deflated my mood.

  Guy had asked for extra commissions to my existing project: illustrations on the inside covers. Guy saw money; I saw pressure. I’d lied to him by pretending I had no issues with time and accepted the extra work without quibbling. Back at my desk, I’d proceeded to gnaw the end of my pencil.

  Due to my persuasive agent, I paid little attention to Kevin and his friend Ryan while they ripped out pipes, drilled holes through walls and ceilings, and lifted floorboards to expose rusting pipes. Sequestered in my den, I beavered away rather oblivious to their activities, unless I allowed thoughts of steaming hot bathwater to infiltrate – my patience was hanging by a thread. I left them to help themselves to drinks and the only time our paths crossed was when I shooed them out of the bathroom for a pee.

  The metallic burning smell of the Rayburn had gradually receded. I was determined to master the art of slow cooking. I stewed casseroles of root vegetables and lamb for hours, then savoured the results in the evenings by the warmth of the fire.

  The rest of my meagre order of furniture arrived during the week. The orange curtains that clashed magnificently with the purple sofa, when hung didn’t quite make the distance to the floor, creating an unfortunate draught that shot across the room at ankle height. However, the synthetic fibres of the rug cushioned my soles and the lopsided uplighter cast a reasonable glow. It almost felt homely.

  However, my tolerance of background noises slipped away and by Friday, I’d grown tired of the constant banging, the radio blaring out thrumming pop songs or the latest football banter. The two men chatted incessantly, both shouting over the radio and the drilling until eventually their voices reached my sanctuary in the attic – my workroom was situated right above the bathroom. I stuffed cotton wool in my ears.

  Sometime around midday, the house fell silent. Downstairs I found them packing their tools into the van.

  ‘Come.’ Kevin gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Let me show you.’

  There’d been issues, unexpected extra expenses caused by previously invisible problems. He rambled through matters, bemoaning the ancient pipework and lack of conduits between the two storeys.

  ‘Right mess.’ He thumped the kitchen wall. ‘Had to run the pipes up this way, rather than along under here.’

  I half listened, not caring about the details, only that it was costing more than the original estimate.

  ‘However,’ he announced with a snort, ‘you’ve got your hot water.’ He turned on the kitchen tap and after a few spurts, water streamed out. I stuck my hand underneath the flow. Scalding! I whipped my hand away.

  Kevin escorted me to the bathroom and demonstrated the hot water supply extended to both the sink and bathtub. Within seconds of the tap being turned on, the steam rose out of the old tub, misting up the brass taps.

  ‘You’ve enough hot water to have a bath everyday. That Rayburn is cooking all the time. There’s your tank.’ He pointed to the corner of the room.

  There was no danger of missing the enormous cylinder, which stood on a raised plinth and held upright by struts extending from the walls. Pipes and valves stuck out of the insulated tank like rigid tentacles on a steel body.

  ‘If you box this in with some wood panels, it’ll make a nice airing cupboard for yewself.’

  Another job for the versatile Charles. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And this,’ he grinned, obviously pleased with himself, ‘is me surprise.’ He rapped his knuckles against the old radiator.

  I reached out to touch it: roasting.

  ‘It weren’t bad, this radiator. I flushed the grot out and replaced the valves. It’s gravity fed, so you’ll need to turn it off in the summer or else you�
��ll cook.’

  I pressed my palms against the metal casing and the warmed my chilled fingers. He’d kept it secret and it was a lovely surprise. I’d heating downstairs in my kitchen and now in the bathroom, too. ‘That’s brilliant. Thank you.’ I rubbed my heated palms together.

  ‘Doesn’t cost much extra, running the pipes alongside the others. Once you’ve made a hole.’ He jerked his head towards the gap in the floor where the pipes vanished.

  With a shaky hand, which was borne more out of shock at the amount than nerves, I wrote out the cheque, and Kevin stuffed it into his jacket pocket. With a nod at Ryan, they climbed into their white van and drove off.

  That evening I sank into the bathtub, wine glass in one hand and a rather damp book in the other. I’d tuned the radio into Smooth FM and dotted a few candles about the room. The combination of mellow lights cast a mural of shadowy patterns on the walls.

  Behind me, the ugly, but well insulated hot tank gurgled as it refilled. I wriggled my toes and burst the foaming bubbles. This would do. Now, I would cope with the winter. Given my crushing workload, the six weeks to Christmas should zip by.

  I closed my eyes. The radio crackled and briefly lost its reception. The room descended into near silence – the tank had replenished, but the water continued to drip: soft pips echoed inside the cylinder. In amongst the varied gentle sounds I heard something else. Humming?

  Perhaps. It sounded similar to the soft buzz of a distant bee, except it tracked the melody on the radio – an old Sixties classic.

  I shot up. The water sloshed around my waist and the bubbles disintegrated.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called out. I swallowed what seemed like a massive lump in my throat and listened, trying to siphon out my thumping heartbeats.

  The strange accompaniment ceased. The water around me stilled and I stared at each of the flickering candles in turn. What had I heard? The radio regained its signal strength and abruptly returned to life. A different song, less melodious and more rhythmic.

  I settled back in the bath. My ears were playing tricks on me. A week of plumbing racket had desensitised my hearing and I’d forgotten the quirky sounds of Heachley Hall. I picked up my book, wetting a few pages as I located my marker. I sighed. Another weekend alone. I couldn’t wait for Monday and with luck Charles would be back to help with the varnishing of the staircase and the construction of the airing cupboard. Those two tasks should keep him occupied and provide me with companionship.

  The book flopped to one side in my hand – I couldn’t concentrate. I stared at my toenails poking out of the water and I tapped them against the edge of the tub.

  I was excited about seeing Charles again. Why was that? He came and went with a peculiar confidence and we’d spent little time in each other’s company. The man was an introvert and uncommunicative for the most part; he’d revealed nothing of consequence about his life beyond Heachley Hall. Had he been in prison? Was he embarrassed about his background? He seemed educated and he spoke with a degree of elegance – posh, as Bert called it. However, Charles wore string for laces and there were patches sewn on the elbows of his jumpers.

  Elegance wasn’t something that sprung to mind when I thought of Charles, rather he maintained a love of humbleness – an endearing trait. Something about him drew me in and I grappled with the need to know more about him. If I chipped away, perhaps he’d eventually open up and tell me. But, I had to tread carefully. If I scared him off with my prying, he might not come back and that would be a pity.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Miriam Chambers?’

  I twirled the telephone cord between a finger and thumb. ‘Yes? Who’s speaking?’ I said somewhat breathless from my rapid descend of the stairs.

  ‘My name is Eva Kendal. You sent me an email a few weeks ago. I’ve been on holiday and I’ve only just caught up with my inbox.’

  I flipped through my contacts list, trying to place her. A local accent and not one of my clients. It took a couple of seconds for her name to register. Ten o’clock on a Monday morning and my brain needed another injection of caffeine. ‘Beechwood Care home, you were the manager.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I don’t work for the company any longer.’ She had a soft voice, the kind you could imagine soothing a troubled person. ‘Your email said you were trying to trace the personal effects of Felicity Marsters.’

  ‘Yes, my great-aunt. Do you remember her?’ I perched on the milk crate, which I’d left by the phone socket.

  ‘Oh most certainly, although poor woman, she had limited mobility and her speech was badly effected by the strokes. I do remember the sparkle in her eyes and she had some degree of understanding of her situation, unlike some of our residents. She clung on longer than we’d anticipated.’

  ‘I had no idea she’d been ill until after her death. I’m particularly interested in her personal things, especially a box which contained documents and other mementos.’ I held my breath while Eva clucked her tongue.

  ‘I don’t recall anything. It was some time ago.’

  ‘Nobody came to claim her things when she died?’ I gripped the cord tighter.

  ‘She had no visitors, beyond those who took it upon themselves to visit for charitable purposes, but they were rare.’ Eva sucked in a quick breath. ‘That isn’t unusual, I should say, her not having kin visit. Her account was settled by her solicitor; he had power of attorney.’

  ‘Mr Porter?’

  ‘Yes, his name rings a bell.’

  ‘Did he visit?’

  ‘I don’t think so. We spoke on the phone. I don’t recall him mentioning a box of documents.’

  Her answer didn’t surprise. I pursed my lips, muffling a growl of annoyance. Mr Porter had shown little if any curiosity in the past life of an invalid ninety year old. No wonder it took six months to find me. His preferred choice had been a swift auction. ‘So what would have happened to her things?’

  ‘Well, we had a storage room and things were generally kept for a period, until it became apparent nobody wanted them. Of course, Felicity died shortly before Beechwood closed.’

  ‘The room was cleared, you don’t remember if—’

  ‘I’m sorry. I left before the actual closure.’ Another sharp intake of breath from Eva. ‘I wasn’t happy with how they handled it. So uncaring – dumping the residents here and there in other homes, splitting up friends. I voiced my concerns, but felt powerless. I resigned.’

  ‘I see.’ I tipped my head back and lent it against the wall. ‘You don’t—’, the doorbell clanged above my head. ‘One moment, please.’

  I put down the handset and unlocked the front door – Charles. I greeted him with a broad smile and he responded in kind, tugging slightly at a lock of hair. I waved him in. ‘I’m on the phone.’

  Charles stepped across the threshold and closed the door as I reclaimed the handset. ‘I’m sorry, Eva, just the front door. Do you have any ideas about what might have happened to Felicity’s things once the home had closed? They wouldn’t have thrown the box away, surely? Not while her will was in probate?’

  Eva released a puff, an almost sigh. I imagined her on the other end of the phone, uncomfortable and fidgety at my line of questioning. Opposite me Charles stood straight backed, his eyebrows unusually quizzical and knotted together.

  ‘I’d assume,’ Eva continued, ‘they were sent to Peterborough, to the head office.’

  ‘I spoke to them. They said they didn’t have anything and gave me your details.’ I sensed an impasse, as if I’d become stuck on a merry-go-round and was rapidly going nowhere.

  ‘Oh. That’s not promising. Who did you speak to?’

  They’d been no names; I should have asked. ‘Some woman in admin.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d go back to them and try again. Ask for the manager. Really, they shut that place in such a hurry.’ The soft edge of her voice disintegrated and a residue of anger surfaced.

  ‘I will. Were there any staff at Beechwood who would remember Fel
icity, perhaps they might be able to help?’ I pursued.

  ‘I suppose. I didn’t deal with the residents on a daily basis – too much paperwork.’ She laughed half-heartedly. ‘Let me see. Staff turnover in the last year or so was high; the writing on the wall must have been obvious.’

  I glanced at Charles. Rather than going to his shed, he remained rooted to the spot, attentively listening, almost craning to hear the other end of the conversation. It was a level of intrusive behaviour I’d not witnessed from him before now. I turned to one side and blocked him out of my view.

  Eva clucked her tongue repeatedly. ‘I’ll try to come up with a couple of names. Everyone was scattered to other nursing homes and some to new jobs. Such a shame.’

  ‘Why was the place closed?’

  ‘Money. The building needed renovating. It wasn’t especially suited to the needs of the residents – people living longer, but often more infirm. I suggested they downgraded the place to a residential home, rather than nursing care, but they opted to close it.’

  ‘So if they’d gone with your plan, and my aunt had survived, she would have been moved anyway?’ Eva was right, the situation hadn’t been fair.

  ‘Yes, more than likely. She needed round the clock attention and would have been placed in a nursing facility. But, the decision was taken out of my hands.’

  I tried not to judge her for abandoning her clients; Eva Kendal might smack of insincerity, but she probably had her own career to consider.

  ‘Sorry,’ she rushed to say, ‘I’ve got to go. I’m ringing from work.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you for calling.’

  ‘I wish I could be more helpful.’

  We said goodbye and I hung up. ‘Drat,’ I muttered.

  ‘Problem?’ Charles’s piped up and I turned to face him.

  ‘I’ve been trying to track down Felicity’s possessions, the ones she took to the nursing home where she died. They seemed to have vanished. I was speaking to the last manager of the home, Eva Kendal.’