The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  ‘What exactly did she have with her at Beechwood when she died?’ I began my interrogation with a straight back. I was determined not to bend.

  ‘Naturally, she left some clothes behind at Beechwood,’ he admitted, while ponderously stirring his coffee. ‘Not much really. She had no way to occupy herself in her last years. The radio seemed to be her companion.’

  ‘No papers in a box?’

  A split second of a blank expression, then he shook his head and drew his lips into a dismissive pout. Did he know nothing about the box?

  I pressed on. ‘When she was taken to hospital, after her fall, a neighbour brought a box of things – she’d asked specifically for it. Nobody seems to know what happened to it.’ I studied him, ready to pounce on any hint of deceit that might inch its way on to his sour features.

  ‘Probably of little importance, then. Old dears are not always in their right minds; they like to keep things – knitting patterns, recipes – things of no significance. The home would have disposed of such things.’

  I scowled and crossed my arms – his indifferent attitude only confirmed his ignorance. ‘She didn’t knit and she was stuck in hospital, not cooking school. Whatever was in that box, she wanted it close by.’

  Mr Porter slurped on his coffee and shrugged. Meeting him in person, I’d gained little insight into the man. He’d ruined my preconceived ideas of his appearance: portly, middle-aged with wispy hair and ruddy cheeks. I’d been wrong. Tall, angular about the shoulders and jaw, and topped off with a mop of black hair, he was far younger than I’d imagined. Perhaps in his thirties and married – I spied the gold band on his finger.

  ‘Your aunt remains a mysterious woman,’ he declared. ‘I should be going. Thank you for showing me around. Good luck with everything. I hope this leads to you fetching a decent price.’

  I smirked. Unlike the original auction, which Mr Bridge had come close to obtaining, this sale would line my pockets and nobody else’s.

  Less than an hour after he’d left, the telephone called me back into the hallway.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, pressing the handset to my ear.

  ‘Miriam Chambers?’ The timid voice was nearly drowned out by crackles and hisses.

  ‘Yes. That’s me. Can I help you?’

  ‘Actually. It’s probably me who can help you.’

  I waited, bracing myself for a cold caller trying to sell me something unwanted. ‘My name is Pauline Myers. I work at St Mary’s hospice—’

  ‘Hospice?’ She had my attention.

  ‘I’m sorry for not contacting you, I’ve been super busy and I forgot. Eva, that’s my old boss, contacted me, and suggested I should get in touch.’

  ‘Eva Kendal?’

  ‘That’s right. I worked at Beechwood for nearly a year, until it closed. I looked after your aunt.’

  I clenched the handset tighter, taming my breathing and praying finally I’d have some news. ‘Felicity. You knew Felicity?’

  ‘I was her primary carer before she passed away. Very sad condition. Felicity was locked in, that’s what we say, after her stroke. Unable to communicate other than blinking. We tried all sorts of things to help her, but she was never one for technology. She loved picture books, especially of India and places like that.’

  ‘I’d been hoping to speak to somebody who was with her at Beechwood. I’m so glad you decided to ring back.’ The excitement unleashed a flurry of nervous expectation.

  ‘Eva persuaded me. She’d contacted me earlier in the year, said you were after information. When they closed the nursing home, I changed jobs and it’s not easy to keep up with my former colleagues.’ The soft voice grew louder, her confidence growing.

  ‘I wanted to know if you remember a box. I don’t know what it looked like or how big it was, but it contained papers, possibly photographs.’ I crossed the fingers of my free hand.

  ‘Oh yes. It was kept in her wardrobe. A rectangular box: colourful, shoebox sized and sort of woven.’

  Distinctive in style and difficult to miss. I swallowed hard. ‘Do you know what became of it after she died?’

  ‘It was bagged up with the rest of her things and put in the storage room until somebody collected it. Next of kin, usually.’

  ‘And did anyone?’

  ‘I’m not sure. You see, it’s funny you’re interested in that box, because it’s bothered me for ages.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘It got a little chaotic after April, last year, when all the residents moved out. I went with some to settle them into their new homes and when I came back, I happened to be in the storeroom and Felicity’s possessions had gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Yes. I asked, because I was a little curious, but nobody I spoke to could remember who took them. She had no visitors, you see, at least not while I cared for her.’

  I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying not to blame myself for Felicity’s lonely existence. ‘Did somebody throw them out?’

  ‘Possibly. But, it would have been logged and there was nothing in the logbook.’

  ‘Logbook?’

  ‘Yes, it was kept in the storeroom.’

  ‘What happened to the logbook?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I took up a job offer at the hospice and didn’t stay to the end.’

  ‘I see,’ I deflated. I’d risen to the height of excitement, expecting some form of definitive news, but what I’d been left with was nothing more than a continuation of my existing problem. The box hadn’t been found.

  ‘Thank you, Pauline, for contacting me. I’m very grateful.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I could have done more for your aunt. I went to her funeral.’

  ‘That’s kind of you. Unfortunately, nobody had traced me and I didn’t know she’d died.’

  ‘A few of us staff went to say goodbye and there was one other person there, who I didn’t recognise. It wasn’t you?’

  ‘No.’ My absence now pained me. ‘What did she look like?’ I asked.

  ‘Red-haired, shortish. Middle-aged, maybe a bit younger.’

  ‘Did she give her name?’

  ‘No, she hurried off at the end of the cremation; tearful I thought.’

  I groaned. ‘If you do remember anything else, you will call me?’

  ‘Of course, but I’m afraid, there’s little else to tell. She, your aunt, never spoke a word.’

  I thanked her again and hung up. The idea of a mute old lady, clinging onto life for no great purpose brought the prickle of tears to my eyes. I wiped them away and sighed.

  A pang of guilt gnawed at my guts. Pauline’s recollections had exonerated Eva: she had been asking around. However, what little I’d unearthed about Felicity’s box painted a picture of neglect but not deceit or deliberate acts of malicious behaviour. If it had gone, it probably had been thrown away. The logbook? Lost too or buried in Twilight’s head office. Did I really want to badger that place again and listen to Mr Craven deny all knowledge of its existence?

  All I’d truly uncovered was there was a solitary mourner at the funeral. Who was she?

  ·•●•·

  Perhaps it was a result of seeing me in the flesh or the evidence of my efforts in turning Heachley Hall around that led Mr Porter to undergo some kind of transformation. That was my positive take on his latest news. My cynical view was that he didn’t want to be held accountable for screwing up and picking a dodgy clearance firm.

  He wrote to me and explained he had followed up my concerns regarding the actions of the company and had identified some issues.

  Standing in the kitchen, I tore the envelope into pieces. ‘Issues!’

  Charles stuck his head around the door. ‘Miriam?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I huffed. ‘Something too late to resolve.’

  He edged into the room. ‘What thing?’

  I glanced over the contents of Mr Porter’s letter. ‘The clearance company he employed to empty the house has gone bust. Their activities are under investigation by Trading
Standards, amongst others.’

  ‘Standards?’ He pursed his lips.

  ‘The company had a habit of selling things on the side. It’s likely some of Felicity’s nicer things, in particular her rugs and tapestries, which Mr Porter failed to record properly, were sold on and not passed back to the estate. Plus, they might have burnt numerous personal items, things that wouldn’t sell.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he murmured.

  ‘Quite.’ I held up the letter. ‘He apologises, but sadly, it’s unlikely the sold items will be recovered. Unless I want to fight it in the courts.’ I scrunched the paper up in my fist and threw it across the room. ‘It’s not right.’

  Charles reached out, captured my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘It’s not your fault. People aren’t as honest as they appear and you weren’t to know.’

  I sniffed and he let go. ‘Sorry. Stupid of me. It’s water under the bridge.’ I stared across the kitchen. Droplets of rain cascaded down the windowpane. Beyond the glass, the omnipresent greyness had returned, aided by sea mist and low clouds. My misery existed alongside that murkiness. ‘I hope the sun returns. Tony is coming next week to clear the lawns.’

  ‘He’s a decent enough chap.’ Charles scratched his chin. ‘There’ll be plenty to do with the spring arriving. I take it you’d like me to help in the garden?’ He raised his eyebrows optimistically.

  It was something of a rhetorical question. How I took Charles for granted bothered me to the point of shame. I paid him haphazardly for his equally sporadic hours of work and he never complained or demanded more money. He seemed to possess boundless levels of energy. If he ever yawned, he hid his gaping mouth and if he suffered with hunger, he kept to his particular mealtimes.

  Since our little waltz in the kitchen, we frequently lapsed into awkward pauses or moments when our eye contact bordered on the bashful. I left unspoken the emotions I’d kindled in my heart and since his feelings remained undisclosed or maybe non-existent, I’d no means to communicate those tiny flames of desire. When I lost my concentration during work, I’d sketched a little drawing of Charles, then scrubbed it out. Those meandering sidetracks nudged their way into my daydreams, especially when I replayed a conversation or one of Charles’s odd comments about something he’d heard on the radio. He’d seemed keen to talk, then when I’d pushed for a more personal context – asking him what his friends thought on a matter – he’d dry up and excuse himself.

  People were allowed to be shy and reticent. Why should he divulge his personal life? What about Felicity? Had he allowed her into his circle of trust? Which led to an irritating realisation about his relationship with my aunt: he’d trusted her, but not me. What would I need to do to prise him open and why – each and every day – was there this need in me to know him better?

  He scooped low and picked-up the chewed-up letter. Unfolding it, he smoothed the crumpled paper out. ‘She wouldn’t have minded.’

  Enigmatic Charles struck again. ‘What?’ I asked.

  He gestured about him. ‘Losing everything. She understood it would come to her in another life.’

  I’d missed the obvious – her devotion to a different place – I sighed, more at myself than him. ‘She believed in reincarnation?’

  ‘She’d been raised a Hindu.’ Charles’s habit of leaking snippets of information about Felicity at salient moments made me wonder to what extent he had really known her. He’d left me with the impression she’d preferred distance. Charles, too, was an expert in creating an uninformative veneer of politeness. Given his age, he could only have known her for a few years, yet, somehow he’d formed a lasting connection.

  The idea of reincarnation appealed; it fitted with the house. ‘Perhaps that is what a haunting is. Some other life bleeding into this one, leaving an impression of itself. I’m sure I can feel her, sometimes, especially at night. I’ve tried to ignore it.’

  He handed me the letter and I lay it on the worktop. Something to file away, but perhaps not forget.

  ‘Is there anything else you need?’ asked Charles softly.

  There were the practical things that needed doing in the house, but my hesitation was due to a strange rush of adrenaline that greeted his question – was he referring to something more? Had I detected in his gentle manners something similar to what I felt towards him? However, sadly, nothing showed on his face; no hint of what else he might mean by his nonchalant enquiry.

  There had been plenty of missed opportunities to recapture the intimacy that I’d come to crave from him. Those that resulted in fleeting contact – like slipping his finger over mine when he handed me something or the adjustments to the scarf around my neck before I went out – were too infrequent to build upon. I held back the intrusive personal questions, lacking the courage to dig deeper for fear he might scarper and not return. Now I failed dismally to answer his own.

  ‘No, thank you. I mean, sure, please help with the garden.’ I crushed my disappointment.

  He opened his mouth, held it there for a second and then pressed his lips together. He turned on his heel and I watched him walk into the scullery and back outside – his haven from me or memories of Felicity?

  TWENTY-SIX

  Throughout the winter months the Rose and Crown remained something of an oasis in the desert of my social life. It acted as a hub, the focus of my limited network around Little Knottisham. I’d become something of a local celebrity and recognisable fixture. I usually visited on a Wednesday evening and again on Saturday lunchtime. Other times, I came and went according to an intermittent need to transmit important files.

  Before I’d left for Christmas, I’d established a particular corner of the taproom as my domain and the locals would greet me by name with a brisk, ‘How yew doing, Miriam?’ It proved to be the quietest spot in the pub and afforded me both an electric socket for my laptop and the warmth of the fire. During January and February, I’d learnt the names of the regulars, especially those who lived out a second life propping up the bar, rather than supping at home. Glenda, always busy in the kitchen while Bert pulled the pints, would come and sit at my table for a few minutes each time I came by so she could check up on my progress. She offered her opinions, whether I wanted them or not. She’d reviewed all of my illustrations, nodding her approval at each picture as if she’d become the sage of children’s books.

  As for my call with Pauline, Glenda failed to recall the red-haired woman. ‘Some kind soul I suppose,’ she suggested. ‘I’m sure Maggie would have gone, if she’d known. But, she’s a little brunette.’

  Heachley Hall gradually had lost its attraction. I’d not kept secret my intention to sell the place and there was the odd enquiry about when the sale would happen, even though the value of the property was beyond the reach of most of the inhabitants. What they did speculate about was who might buy it.

  ‘Pykes,’ The name rumbled around the pub each time the question came up for discussion. ‘She’ll nab it.’ The gossip reiterated what I’d learnt from Charles and Glenda, who’d confirmed when I’d probed her that Liz fancied herself as Heachley’s owner, but Glenda hadn’t added anything further about Liz’s relationship with Felicity and laughed off the idea of anything malicious on Liz’s part.

  ‘She’s thinks she’s the queen of Knottisham, but she’s harmless,’ Glenda had said with a loud chuckle. I thought Glenda wore that crown and I preferred it on her head. She patted my arm and hurried back to her domain behind the bar.

  The other contenders for buying Heachley were a boutique hotel chain, a retired cabinet minister and a minor royal – this idea, I assumed, grew from the relative proximity of the Sandringham estate. However, to their collective disappointment, I’d not been approached by anyone of magnitude.

  The patrons had never satisfactorily resolved my curiosity towards my neighbours. Liz Pyke generated scowling expressions, whereas Tony was generally well liked. My earlier enquiries about Charles had resulted in blank looks. After the incident with the footprints in the snow when he�
��d told me he walked over from Docking direction, the troop of regulars, mainly men, rolled their eyes to the timber beams.

  ‘Probably went to a different school to us,’ one proposed initiating a debate about the local population.

  ‘Assuming he was born here. Could be a traveller, one of those.’

  ‘Some like to travel, others never go more than a few miles.’

  The banter around the bar had dried up, as it had on most occasions. I’d given up asking if anyone knew anything about Charles. By the beginning of March my place in the community had been accepted and nobody batted an eyelid when I inhabited the corner.

  The next time I arrived for my usual Wednesday lunch, Glenda loomed close by as I set up my laptop.

  ‘Thought you’d like to know Maggie has been in contact me with me and she asked about Heachley.’

  I dropped the cable. ‘Really? Where is she? Can I meet her?’

  Glenda slipped into the seat opposite. ‘Steady up,’ she chuckled.

  ‘Did she leave a contact number?’

  ‘She was in a bit of a dither, to be frank. Her mum’s been ill, she’s separated from Fido—’

  ‘Fido?’

  ‘Her puppy dog husband, whom she should have left a long time ago.’

  ‘So no contact number.’ I slumped in my seat.

  ‘She was curious about you, though. Wanting to know what had happened to the old hall. She hung up pronto, so I think she had to go.’ Glenda scraped back her chair and collected up a couple of empty glasses from the nearby table. ‘There’s one slice of steak and kidney pie left. I kept it back for you.’

  I smiled, sweetly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Peas and mash?’

  As if there was any other option with the pie. I nodded. ‘Not too much gravy, please.’ My appetite had slunk away; I suspected I’d caught a cold.