‘You’re far too skinny.’ She frowned. ‘If your mother were alive, she’d fatten you up.’
I kept the wan smile fused on my face a little longer. ‘Probably.’
I’d no idea what my mother would have made of my life. She should have been the one to inherit Heachley Hall, along with my father. Every time I pictured that scenario, my intention to sell the place wavered. Could I create an idyllic family haven where we would live happily ever after? But reality bit quickly. I tossed the fantasy aside and replaced it with unglamorous creaking floors and clanking pipes. The fuse box continued to trip at least twice a month, casting me in darkness. The last time had only been the previous week, when I’d used the iron in a different socket to usual. Consequently, I’d covered the socket in tape to remind me it was faulty and best avoided. Half the antique electrical outlets in the house were dangerous.
Glenda returned to her place behind the bar and I concentrated on my next proposal: another farmyard story. The publisher had received my last one with admiration and they’d commissioned a second joint adventure from the author and myself. Personally, I’d rather draw aliens.
The following day I told Charles about Maggie’s call. He raised his unfathomable eyebrows and said nothing.
With the onset of warmer weather, he’d spent more time in the garden. However, due to a deluge of rain the previous day, Tony’s promised arrival of heavy-duty cutting equipment had been delayed. Charles, unperturbed by the wet foliage, set about lopping and digging up the brambles and generally redefining the borders. We discussed how to deal with the growing pile of garden waste that would only become bigger once Tony set to work with his hedge trimmer and industrial sized mower. ‘Burn it,’ Charles suggested.
I disagreed. ‘Too much smoke. Also, it’s environmentally unfriendly, burning waste.’ A tad hypocritical on my part. Ruth and I had burnt leaves and a curtain. But Tony was about to add a mountain of cuttings.
He battered his long eyelashes for a few seconds, but didn’t argue.
What else? ‘I could hire a shredder and turn it into compost.’
He whistled, sucking in his breath. ‘That’s going to be a mighty amount of compost.’
‘There’ll be space to store it at the back of the garden.’
‘Still, that’s a lot of mulch.’
‘What did you do with it when you worked for Felicity?’
‘Burnt it.’
We smiled in unison. ‘Okay, let’s see what Tony has to say, he might know how to deal with it.’
Charles’s smile dipped. ‘He’s coming here?’
‘Soon, I expect. Not sure when. He’s doing me a favour. I can hardly demand an allotted time.’
Charles nodded, pursing his lips. ‘No, true. I’ll concentrate on clearing the paths at the back, shall I?’
Not long after, he disappeared behind the bushes wheeling the barrow he’d resurrected from one of the sheds. How quickly he merged into the shrubs and undergrowth, allowing the garden to consume him whole: a man very much at home outside – more so than indoors.
·•●•·
Too many things whirled around in my head: work related issues, the house, Felicity’s infernal box and Charles, my dancing partner. I flitted between tasks, unable to settle, and blew my nose with increasing frequency. No longer could I ignore the cold, both the resurgence of wintery weather and viral versions.
By Friday afternoon, having returned from a disorganised trip to the supermarket for food I didn’t fancy and unable to face drawing, I relented to fatigue and opted to sit before the warmth of the sitting room fire. I heaped extra logs onto the burning embers until the sap hissed and leaked between the shards of blackened bark. The sizzling noise was melodic, a gentle tune for my tired ears, and as I gazed at the flames, my eyelids drooped. I snuggled deeper into the crook of the sofa and my head lolled.
‘Miriam!’
I jerked awake, snapped my heavy head up and ricked my neck muscles in the process. I smelt a different kind of burning: acrid and chemical.
One end of the rug was on fire. On the hearth lay a burning piece of timber and shooting out of it, sparks. Charles stamped on the flames. One corner of the rug had caught. I leapt to my feet to assist, but he waved me back. I wore slippers, while he had boots.
Starting a fire in a hearth might be a challenge, but an unwanted one ignited with relative ease. Having escaped the fireplace, it sought the most inflammable material in the room and feasted on it.
‘Your laces,’ I pointed at his boots; the dangling string had caught fire like a candle’s wick. He dabbed tentatively at the fuse with his hand. Smoke rose between his feet.
‘Damnation.’ He dragged off his pullover and used it to beat the flames.
I dashed into kitchen, grabbed the rim of the half full washing bowl and carried it back to the sitting room. The water sloshed around and spilt over the sides. With little thought for aim, I upended the contents onto the rug.
The flames distinguished, but the plume of smoke remained and coiled around our ankles. Charles knelt by the undamaged end and began to roll the rug up. Underneath, where he’d exposed the floorboards, the dirty dish water trickled through the crevices and disappeared into the dead space below.
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed heavily, pressing my palm against my clammy, hot forehead. ‘I fell asleep.’
Charles grabbed his discarded pullover and rose. ‘You’d put far too much wood on the fire, so it toppled over.’ He didn’t attempt to mask the rebuke. ‘Foolish girl,’ he added and kicked the rolled up rug. Smoke wafted out of one end.
I chewed on my lip. ‘Sorry.’
Now wearing only a white t-shirt, which although shabby managed to accentuate the sculpting of his biceps and pectorals, he examined his sweater for damage. I couldn’t stop staring at his arms and the peculiar blemishes that meandered along them. I itched to reach out and trace one. Numerous unanswered questions bubbled away in my head.
Seeing my unguarded fascination, he flinched then scowled. He shifted backwards and stretching his arms above his head, he hurriedly covered up his body. Embarrassed by the need to stare at him, I turned away and focused on the fireplace.
‘I waited too long. I mean, I should have made a fireguard,’ he muttered, bending over to pick up the rug.
‘It’s not your fault.’ My voice shook; the delayed burst of adrenaline hit hard. My legs wobbled and nausea filled my empty belly. What if I hadn’t woken up? Even worse, what if Charles hadn’t been here?
He rested the rolled up rug over his shoulder. ‘I’m sure I can find a sheet of metal, perhaps use part of the old boiler and make it into a guard.’ He shifted the weight of the rug and the pungent smell of charred fabric penetrated my snotty nose.
My stupidity riled not only me, but him, too. He kept shaking his head and clucking his tongue.
I shrivelled. ‘Charles—’
‘Sh,’ he whispered. He brushed the knuckles of his spare hand over my cheekbone. ‘Good fortune I came into the house to use the bathroom.’ His thinly set lips, which he’d pressed into a line, softened into a gentle smile. He heaved the rug one more time, allowing it to drape over his shoulder and he walked towards the door.
Glancing back, he eyed me. ‘You should go to bed. I’ll bank the fire down.’
‘Thank you.’ I sniffed, plucked a tissue from my trouser pocket and unapologetically blew my nose. Then, with my fingertips, I touched the spot on my flushed cheekbone and held them there.
In bed, I snuggled down under the duvet. My embarrassment at setting fire to the rug had been obliterated by the realisation Charles had taken care of me. That little premise warmed my bones as much as the convection heater. Falling easily into sleep, I floated the cusp of an idea that he would always take care of me, wherever I lived.
TWENTY-SEVEN
By Monday the weather and my cold had sufficiently improved for me to hang out the washing. On the southern side of the house, Charles had speared two poles int
o the soggy ground and rigged a line between them. While I pegged the bedsheets onto the line, a car pulled up on the driveway.
Out of the vehicle stepped a small woman, rather neat in stature, and she wore leggings and a hugging sweatshirt. The colour of the hair caught my eye: red.
‘Hello!’ I called out.
She halted near to the porch. ‘You must be Miriam.’
I carried the empty laundry basket and picked a path through the long grass to meet her. ‘Yes. I’m Miriam.’
A tentative smile shaped her lips, which twitched nervously. ‘I’m Maggie.’
Now, up close, I could see the roots of her dyed hair. Streaks of auburn and caramel almost hid the ashes of her natural colouring. Glenda had described Maggie differently. Just by visiting the hairdressers she’d easily, and unintentionally no doubt, disguised herself.
Following me into the house, Maggie gasped at the bare bones of the house, but not at the rattles and creaks as the wind tracked behind us; the whispering chorus of the house I’d grown used to over the previous months.
‘What a draught,’ she’d remarked. ‘It’s so, empty.’
She poked her nose around the library door, muttering and shaking her head at the fractured plasterwork and vacant shelves. Seeing the kitchen cupboards, her face had lit up; something familiar and while she waited for me to fill the kettle, she traced her fingers along the edge of a cupboard door.
‘These have come up a treat.’
‘New hinges and handles.’ I almost mentioned Charles, but changed my mind. There would be no sidetracking Maggie onto other topics.
She swung one open. ‘I’d no idea everything had gone.’
I switched on the kettle and cleared my throat. ‘What happened – the day she fell – were you here?’
She peered inside the nearest unit and inspected the row of cereal packets. ‘Oh yes, I was here in the kitchen. Gave me such a shock. She came down with a clatter – her walking stick – and I panicked seeing her lying at the bottom. She was calm, never one to get flustered or upset, but I could see she was in terrible pain.’
‘Why did she fall?’ The kettle started to whistle.
‘Why?’ Maggie closed the door and shrugged. ‘Old legs. I told her to fit a stair lift.’
She described an anti-climax. I’d anticipated Maggie finding Felicity alone and unconscious at the bottom of the stairs, something more sinister than a simple slip. I’d created a dramatic scenario in my head based on what? My fertile, suspicious imagination, and little else.
‘And you called Tony?’ I dunked the teabag up and down in a mug; the tea stained the water in swirling patterns.
‘I know. Silly me. I should have rung for an ambulance, but he dialled the emergency services from the farm then came here straightaway, and stood at the gate looking out for the paramedics. I went with Felicity in the ambulance.’ She reached out, accepting the tea mug offered to her.
We relocated to the sitting room and I prodded the fire back to life with the poker. Maggie sipped on her tea, peering over her shoulder at the sparsely furnished lounge. ‘This was the dining room.’
‘I use it as a living space. The other rooms are too big to heat.’
‘It was always a challenge keeping this house warm. The central heating barely functioned and she wouldn’t pay to have it fixed. I don’t think she had much money left by then. She’d inherited a considerable amount from her father, but it couldn’t last forever. She never had a job.’
She rambled on for a few minutes, describing how Felicity recycled everything, hoarding books and clothes, even clothing from jumble sales.
I snatched a question when she paused to breathe. ‘Did she take anything with her?’
‘With her?’
‘In the ambulance?’
Maggie blinked a few times. ‘Not that I recall.’
‘Oh. It’s just Liz Pyke told me—’
Maggie’s frown lines deepened and she snorted. ‘Liz? She wasn’t here when it happened. She visited the hospital later and went back to fetch a few things for Felicity, if that’s what you mean. I stayed with Felicity until she was comfortable in the ward.’ She rested the mug on her lap. She had large hands with callouses between the knuckles and chipped nails. ‘They moved her to a nursing home to recuperate. Frankly, she and I argued about her future. I believed she should stay in the home longer, but she was miserable there and I agreed when she came back here, I would extend my hours. But then she had the stroke. So sad, we – Bert and I – had planned this homecoming for her. She’d even agreed to have the stair lift fitted.’
I joined her on the sofa and her face remained in profile as she stared into the fire. Her nose, which was dainty and small, twitched like a rabbit’s.
‘They moved her after the stroke. Did you see her at Beechwood?’ I tried to sound nonchalant, as if my questions were rudimentary and lacking ambition, but ultimately, my destination was the nursing home.
‘We moved to Norwich, my husband and I, and I tried to stay in contact with Felicity by visiting when I could. She’d recognised me, even after I dyed my hair – new look for a new life. I saw the spark in her eyes when I entered the room. I read to her, brought her new books, her favourite foods. But then…’ She tightened her grip on the mug.
‘Glenda said your mother’s ill.’
‘I ended up living with Mum. My husband didn’t want to move again. It’s fine, we were on the ropes anyway.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t apologise, not about him and me. We’re good, probably better apart than together. I wound him up no end. I came up to see him. I rang the pub and Glenda told me you’d moved in, so I decided to call by on the way back.’
‘I’m very grateful to have this chance to talk to you. I know so little about my great-aunt. You went to the funeral?’ Pauline’s description fitted Maggie: it had to be her.
‘Yes. It was reported in the local paper’s obituary column and my husband spotted it. That last year of Felicity’s life flew by. I kept meaning to visit her. But, Mum took priority—’
‘Of course. It was kind of you to visit Felicity when you could. I’d no idea she’d been ill. The solicitor didn’t put much effort into finding me.’
‘She mentioned you a few times, recalling what a lovely child you were – sweet Miriam, she’d say, but of course, you’re not little now,’ Maggie added with a whimsical smile.
I hugged my knees. ‘She remembered me?’
‘Oh yes. Your mother, too. Always sad when her name cropped up; she’d go watery eyed. So young, she’d say.’
My eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I wished I had the chance to know her; Felicity, that is. To be honest, I don’t remember Mum much either.’
‘When Felicity died one of the care assistants rang me – Lucy. We’d become good friends you see, she’d offer me advice about how to look after my mum and we chatted on the phone several times. I went to the cremation, just me and a few of the other staff, but I had to dash off at the end of the service.’
I swallowed a hard lump in my throat. ‘Beechwood closed down not long afterwards.’
‘I know. Lucy was concerned about Felicity’s things.’ Maggie shot a sideways glance. Her expression was taunt, paler than when she first arrived.
‘Things?’ My eagerness raised the tone of my voice. I slouched backwards in the chair and tried to mitigate my excitement.
‘The clothes had already gone. They’d all but forgotten about it and with so much upheaval, Lucy thought it might get destroyed or mislaid. So we arranged to meet up and she handed it over to me. I don’t think she was meant to, me not being a relative, but nobody seemed to care anymore.’
‘It?’ I crushed my palms together in a minor act of prayer.
‘A box.’
I closed my eyes, ‘And you have it?’ then, held my breath.
‘Yes. In the car. I hope you don’t think I would steal anything of Felicity’s.’ I opened my eyes to see her trembling l
ips and her nose twitched faster.
Maggie was no thief, not in my opinion, because she’d answered my prayers. I reached over and touched the back of her hand. She flinched, possibly misinterpreting my relief and I withdrew it.
‘No, not at all. I’ve been searching for that box. I’m just grateful it’s been found.’
She’d been sat bolt upright, her shoulders rigid, as if expecting me to burst into anger, but instead, I’d unleashed my enthusiasm and gratitude. She fumbled in her handbag for her car keys and smiled. ‘I’ll go get it.’
I paced the room waiting for her return. I needed to stay grounded and not succumb to over-excitement. I’d built this box up to be the answer to all my questions. What if it was nothing but holiday postcards and things she’d brought back from India? Maggie described Felicity as a hoarder. Nevertheless, I wanted the box my aunt had treasured to contain something of value, of significance.
I peered out of the window and watched Maggie unlock the boot of her Ford Focus. She extracted the box, propping it on her hip as she slammed the door shut.
Pauline had called it colourful and shoe boxed size, but not a shoebox. It wasn’t made from cardboard and neither was it the kind of storage box sold in a typical shop.
I opened the front door for Maggie and she thrust the prized container in my direction, before I’d even had the chance to shut the door. She offered it to me in a manner that smacked of desperation, as if the box was diseased.
‘One minute,’ I held up my hand. Without a dining room table, I’d nowhere to put it. I dashed into the sitting room and unfolded the collapsible camping table, which I used in lieu of a permanent one. I placed the table by the sofa.
‘There will do.’ I pointed at it.
Maggie rested the box on the surface and stood back. ‘Chindi. That’s what they call it.’
She referred to the Indian technique of using colourful woven scraps of material. Long threads of cotton or other stiff fabrics, trapped in lines. The lid was held in place with a hook.
I fingered the loose threads, which had frayed and poked out in a spiky pattern. ‘I take it you know what’s inside.’ My stomach churned, wanting to know, but also not daring to peep inside. Would it be letters, another will, or something about my mother or grandfather?
The Women of Heachley Hall Page 22