The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  ‘Possessions?’ He followed me into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m not sure what they were. She kept them in a box. Liz – Tony’s wife – thought it contained papers. I was hoping to find out more about my family and why she left this house to me.’

  Charles displayed an unusually deep frown. ‘I assume she left it to you as you are her nearest living relative. I don’t believe she would want this place left to a stranger.’

  ‘But why this year thing. Why?’ I slammed a mug down on the worktop. ‘Sorry,’ I grimaced. ‘Not your problem.’ It was time to move on. I pointed at the Rayburn. ‘Look at my new cooker.’

  Charles stepped over to the mammoth appliance. ‘Impressive.’

  I showed him hot water gushing out of the tap and then, beckoning him upstairs, the tank in the corner of the bathroom and explained the airing cupboard idea.

  He peered around the cylinder. ‘I’m sure I can put something together.’

  We agreed he should stick to the original plan of restoring the staircase to its former glory before dealing with the cupboard. When I mentioned the electric sander I’d bought, he furrowed his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s cordless,’ I explained. ‘I checked it out and it’s easy to use. I’ve bought loads of emery papers, including different grades. I wasn’t sure which would be best. It will work brilliantly on the steps and bannister, but you’ll have to sand down the spindles by hand.’

  Returning upstairs to work, I left him to practise. Around lunchtime I emerged from the attic and halted on the landing above the hall because below people were talking. Two male voices passing back and forth in rapid conversation. Neither of them was Charles. My stomach churned with shock – had he opened the door to somebody and why hadn’t I heard the doorbell?

  I tiptoed down the stairs and as I turned the corner, I encountered Charles on his knees sanding a bannister spindle with a sheet of emery paper. There was no sign of the sander. Resonating around him were voices discussing the political issue in Russia: a news bulletin on the radio. I was relieved. The house hadn’t been invaded by strangers.

  He stopped the circular motion of his sanding hand and glanced up. ‘You don’t mind Radio Four, do you?’ He pointed a finger between the balusters to the floor below.

  I leant over the bannister. He’d placed the radio on a crate and plugged it into the only socket in the hallway. Chunky in size and with the antenna extended to its full length, the radio’s reception compared to my battery driven one, wasn’t bad. The model with its wooden casing and dial buttons reminded me of one Dad possessed, which in turned had belonged to Nana.

  Nana Chambers was another one of my relatives who had come and gone leaving little trace or impact on my life. Along with my grandfather, she had spent most holidays abroad enjoying sunny beaches or pool sides, letting her skin crisp into a leathery jacket. Eventually, tiring of dull England – as she’d frequently claimed – they’d both uprooted themselves and gone to live in the Costa del something. My father shrugged off their emigration and shown no interest in visiting. His sisters had raced off at every opportunity to spend time with their parents, basking in the sunshine and drinking tequilas. ‘Why can’t we go?’ I’d asked Dad countless times. His replies had varied from lack of time to unnecessary expense. The reality had been he’d been busy courting another woman and visiting Greece on a regular basis.

  Nana had a great deal of tolerance for the sun, but not the healthy diet of the local Spanish. According to my aunts, she’d stuck religiously to eating chips with everything and consequently her heart clogged up. My forgotten grandfather, who’d spent most of his last years fishing, followed her to the grave not long after having never bothered to interfere with her cooking choices. Dad had gone to their funerals, but he’d not taken me. I guessed he adopted her radio and brought it home.

  Dad had enjoyed Radio Four. ‘Sure, why would I mind? I can’t hear it up there. I like the radio, but I can’t work and listen to speech.’

  ‘I find it passes the time.’ He slid his hand along the bannister. ‘I thought I’d start with the bannister, then do the steps.’

  ‘Whatever you like.’ I continued downstairs. ‘Do you want a sandwich?’

  ‘No, thank you. I had a big breakfast and I can last till later.’

  Before I returned upstairs with a plate of sandwiches and an apple from my orchard, I left him a coffee on the crate next to the radio.

  Later, spying through the window the first stars in the darkening sky, I stretched, rose and carried the empty plate downstairs. The radio was silent and unplugged. The untouched electric sander and the emery paper lay next to the crate. I switched on the kitchen light and discovered the coffee mug I’d left with Charles laying on the drainer, rinsed out and dry. I’d failed to hear his departure, again.

  An odd guy – his habits shaped by his solitary nature and unpretentious attitude – evasive, too. While I sketched and coloured in pictures of cartoon animals, he’d sanded a handful of spindles and perhaps, two metres of bannister rail. Charles wasn’t in a hurry. But, I didn’t mind. If it kept him busy and here, under my roof, then technically I had company, and if all we managed to say to each other over the coming days, perhaps weeks, amounted to little of substance, then it was more than I’d expected when I’d arrived a month earlier.

  EIGHTEEN

  Before I left to spend Christmas with Aunt Valerie in Wiltshire, I paid Glenda and Bert a visit. Any spare hour or so I’d had in the last few weeks had been nabbed for one small project – a drawing of the Rose and Crown in ink and water colours. The gift brought an almost teary smile to Glenda’s robust features. An appreciative Bert hammered a nail in the wall by the bar and hung the picture there.

  I visited my flat in Chelmsford. The first night, I laid on my bed wrapped in my sleeping bag and cried. There seemed little explanation for my breakdown, other than fatigue and probably frustration at how little time I’d had to discover more about Felicity. On a positive note, my illustration project had been completed, although I’d had to fight with Wi-Fi connections at the Rose and Crown and the slow transfer rates before Guy declared he’d received everything. The author had sent me a complimentary email in reply.

  My time in Chelmsford should have felt like a glorious homecoming, however, my two nights in the flat served to remind me that for the next few months it wasn’t my home. Putting aside the sombre reality of my situation, I revelled in the luxury of a shower by letting the hot spray pummel my aching back.

  The television became my constant companion for the duration of my stay. While gorging on crisps and biscuits, watching the kind of tripe I’d normally considered a waste of my precious time. I didn’t shift from my armchair and with my laptop glued to my kneecaps, I hogged my social media accounts. My neglected Facebook account burst back into life as I caught up with friends. I tweeted inconsequential soundbites every few minutes and retweeted strangers’. My fingers tapped away on the keyboard.

  Eventually I ventured out, once, with my friend, Frankie, who worked at the local college as an assistant in the art department. I’d met her there during my studies. The day before Christmas Eve I painted my lips with gloss and she dragged me out to one of Chelmsford’s less salubrious pubs. We spent the evening hollering over the headache inducing grind of music.

  Naturally, she’d been curious about my circumstances in Norfolk, but the constant battle with the background noise shrank our conversation down to one or two words flung across a small table. We gave up communicating, got drunk and staggered back to my flat. I rocked her in a bear hug before she clambered into the back of a taxi. Frankie hadn’t exactly taxed my intellect, but she’d given me a decent forgetful night out. After two months of self-inflicted exclusion at Heachley Hall, one night of frivolous fun was a luxury.

  The long drive along the M4 on Christmas Eve gave me time to think. Guy had more work lined up for me in the New Year; good opportunities that would keep me busy, and I also had Ruth’s new book to work o
n, too. I carried a drawing pad with me wherever I went and I sketched out ideas in the services car park during one break. If the author liked my rough drafts I hoped to win the commission.

  I hit the road again and conjured up half-baked illustrations as I drove. Between mental pictures, I fretted about Heachley Hall. Cars zoomed past my Fiesta while I thrummed my fingers on the steering wheel and reviewed my situation. Charles had finished the stairs and constructed a fair sized airing cupboard with three useful shelves. My next plan had been to redecorate the living room, but when the replacement tiles I’d ordered for the hall arrived early, I’d reprioritised my task list.

  Before I’d left, Charles, crawling about on the mosaic floor, had examined the old tiles. ‘They’ve lasted well,’ he’d muttered. He poked his finger in a crack, then bounced up onto his feet. ‘I’ll start in January, when you’re back.’

  I’d promised to buy adhesive once I returned in the New Year. ‘I’ll see you then?’ I’d ventured to ask, hopefully, as he’d crossed the threshold of the front door.

  ‘Of course.’ He’d turned to face me, his head cocked to one side and a crooked smile shaped his lips. ‘I look forward to it.’

  A wary pause ensued as I lowered my eyes, unable to maintain his fetching gaze and ran my finger along the edge of the doorframe, ‘Sure. Yes. Me, too.’ I dropped the awkward words one at a time like Morse code.

  Just one smile and the blood rushed to my cheeks. I nearly glanced away, embarrassed by my reaction. There was an air of expectancy about him. He’d hovered, locking his gaze on me, forcing me to hold him in a visual embrace. Strip away his worn-out clothes with their hand-sewn patches, the man had something classy lurking beneath. The confident pose: straight backed and square shouldered and his eloquent speech devoid of the Norfolk dialect. It always surprised me as I expected him to drawl in a similar fashion to Tony or Kevin. When I’d asked him about how he planned to spend Christmas and New Year, he chewed on his lips, and gave a small shrug. No mention of his home life.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he’d said, then changed the subject back to floor tiles.

  When goodbyes became awkward, it meant something else was going on; a thought which continued to unnerve me.

  I thumped the steering wheel and swore loudly at a Passat that under cut me. The sooner I reached Valerie’s the better. A wandering mind had dangerous properties.

  ‘My darling,’ Valerie screeched, dashing across the driveway, as I unfolded my legs and slammed the car door shut. ‘Well done.’ She wrapped her arms around me, hugging me to her skimpy bosom. Valerie considered driving to Devizes a challenging endeavour only to be undertaken by the most brave. The week before she’d implored me to come by train. ‘We’ll pick you up from Swindon.’ I’d won that battle swiftly when I told her the price of a ticket compared to the expense of driving. My aunt lived in a bubble when it came to the cost of anything.

  ‘They’re all here,’ she announced, propelling me towards the front door.

  The all aspect meant a crowded house. As well as Valerie and Uncle Dave, I had my cousins, Yvonne and Lucy, plus Lucy’s husband Justin and their pint-sized son, Toby. I paused by the door. ‘Yvonne hasn’t brought Legolas, has she?’ I cringed, remembering how the over excited Labrador had chewed my sandals during my last visit.

  ‘Kennels. Simply not enough space.’ Valerie dropped her voice. ‘I’d never say this to Yvonne, but he’s a beast to look after. Such a relief when she’d realised it was either the dog in the car or the presents. She couldn’t fit in both.’ We both giggled.

  I braced myself for a gaggle of enthusiastic relatives and held out my arms for the inevitable crushing embraces of each one in turn.

  ·•●•·

  Between watching films, washing up dirty dishes and playing snakes and ladders with Toby – again – I snatched moments alone. My business website, which I haphazardly updated, needed an overhaul to bring it up-to-date with my latest projects. I jotted down notes and immersed myself in the world of Internet connectivity, something I pined for at Heachley.

  By the time I returned to Chelmsford, I had a list of things to do and for the duration between Christmas and New Year, I kept myself busy. Feeling pleased with myself, I repacked my suitcase with fresh clothes and drove to Southend to Ruth’s house.

  Mick was a beefy guy with black rimmed glasses, which he pushed back up his nose every few seconds. When he shook my hands he squeezed my knuckles, then as an afterthought he edged forward to peck my cheek.

  ‘Miriam, lovely to meet you.’

  I was intruding on their special time together. It felt obvious in the awkwardness of the moment. I asked about their respective Christmases.

  ‘Mother,’ Ruth groaned. ‘She’s a talking machine and Dad watched everything on telly: all the usual repeats and whined the whole time about the lack of originality, and then contradicted himself by claiming he missed the old shows. Blah blah. I read loads.’ She grinned with the last comment.

  Mick lined up the mugs. He appeared quite at home in Ruth’s domestic haven.

  ‘I had the kids on Boxing Day along with my parents.’ He opened his mouth to say something else, then shut it again. His thick eyebrows twitched, knotting together across the bridge of his nose. He shrugged off the pause. ‘It was different. But, I suppose there were no slanging matches to upset the boys.’

  I shuffled on my feet, not knowing what to say. ‘So, is it just us for the evening?’

  Ruth confessed they’d invited someone called Matt. I suppressed the eye rolling, because her cheeks went pink when she mentioned he was single. Ruth liked to play matchmaker for me and her attempts so far had not given rise to any new boyfriends.

  ‘Matt who?’ I asked folding my arms across my chest.

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  ‘Teacher?’

  ‘No,’ she tut-tutted, an exasperated expression. ‘A nurse practitioner. He works at the hospital.’

  ‘And how did you meet him?’

  Ruth traced a finger along the edge of the worktop, flitting her eyes over to Mick.

  ‘My brother.’ He poured hot water into one of the mugs. ‘Matt’s my brother.’

  ‘Oh,’ I kept my mouth in a round shape. Didn’t Matt have friends of his own to spend the New Year with? I said nothing and Ruth changed the subject to ask about Heachley Hall. As we settled onto the comfy chairs in her lounge, I brought her up-to-date on my endeavours to renovate the place.

  She rubbed her shoulder up to Mick’s side and curled her legs to one side, stuffing her feet under a cushion. He wrapped an arm about her neck and caressed her with the tips of his fingers. I examined my coffee and described the staircase and airing cupboards.

  ‘Guy lining up more work for you?’ she asked.

  ‘Not as much. I think he’s busy taming another illustrator to his ways.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s realised he needs to hang back,’ Ruth suggested, raising her mug to her lips. ‘Give you some breathing space to sort your place out.’

  ‘Probably,’ I said weakly.

  A silence ensued. I couldn’t stop staring at Mick’s roving hand. It ran down Ruth’s arm, tucked itself around her waist and gave her a little squeeze. She giggled and snuggled even closer to him. I backed myself deeper into my armchair and slurped on my hot drink.

  ‘And Charles?’ Ruth’s interrogation continued unabated as she cuddled Mick.

  My scalp tingled when she mentioned Charles, so much so I raked my fingers through my hair to combat the fuzzy sensation and pursed my lips. ‘Coming back to replace the broken tiles. Then, he might do some decorating. He says he could have a go at plastering, too.’

  ‘A jack of all trades.’

  ‘Beats me hands down, then,’ Mick guffawed and took a swig from his coffee before continuing. ‘I can do IKEA, but anything that doesn’t involve a screwdriver or hammer, I’m stuffed.’ A broad smile filled the lower half of his face. He had appealing features with a light dusting of bri
stles around his lips and chin. Along with a twitchy nose, the seemingly unconscious adjusting of his glasses, he scratched the back of his neck, too. I unnerved him and it re-established the idea that my presence was inconvenient.

  I retraced the conversation. ‘He’s been a handyman for a while I think. Gardener, too.’

  ‘That garden needs so much work,’ Ruth agreed. ‘We’ll come up and help in the spring, won’t we, Mick?’

  For a split second his lips drooped, then he nodded, rather too briskly. ‘Sure. We’ll help. In the spring.’

  Spring seemed a lifetime away. One month of winter and I couldn’t wait for the longer days and the warmer nights.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t promise many home comforts and—’

  ‘I thought,’ Ruth interrupted, ‘We could stay at the Rose and Crown, then you don’t have to worry about beds and things.’

  Things. I imagined them canoodling around my house or squashed on my dinky two-seater keeping each other warm. Did I want that kind of company? Ruth, yes, she was useful on her own and easy to accommodate, but a couple? I fidgeted, swallowed the last mouthfuls of my scolding coffee and ignored the burning sensation in the back of my throat.

  ‘Makes sense. I mean, you’re my guests and I’m not expecting you to spend the weekend gardening,’ I said.

  Ruth blinked hard at me, opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. I instantly regretted the sarcasm. I leapt to my feet. ‘How about a walk? I’ve eaten far too much at Valerie’s and need to exercise.’

  Unsurprisingly, Mick’s brother turned out to be not my type and my opinion wasn’t helped by a fourth glass of wine.

  Mick cooked a delicious evening meal of pasta and ragu, Ruth provided the cheesecake and Matt brought the wine. I gnawed on my lower lip when I realised I’d brought nothing for the evening. Ruth patted my hand as I apologised for my lack of foresight.