The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  Upon Rupert’s death the house passed to the ownership of Hubert Marsters, who lived in India with his children. Frederick never inherited Heachley. His wife, Alice, had died of the Spanish flu, which scourged India as much as Europe, leaving him bereft and apathetic – according to the domestic staff. He parted from his son, Hubert, and the spice trade, to return to England to reside with his uncle, Rupert. They died within a year of each other, widowers who haunted this house more effectively than I. In their final years, throughout the twenties, I existed in a void, their constant presence an encumbrance. With both men gone, an agent, who acted on behalf of Hubert, was established to manage the property and the start of 1934 began a long period of tenancy.

  My first encounter with the Melrose family occurred not long after they arrived. Mr Melrose was a captain in the merchant navy and often departed on long journeys to distant shores. During his absence, while his boys attended boarding school, I reappeared.

  Having snatched clothes from the washing line, desperate to lose my Edwardian appearance, I knocked on the door and pleaded my usual case for work. A long economic depression had descended on the world and the sight of a strange man begging for work about the house and grounds did not seem out of place to Mrs Melrose. She asked me to fix the broken shelves in the library. I’d never aspired to be a carpenter, but fortitude coupled with agile fingers enabled me to acquire the necessary skills to fashion things out of wood. She put me to good use: I chopped the felled trees for firewood, cut back the long grass in the garden with a scythe and pruned the apple trees.

  The day her sons returned for the holidays I vaporised, the loppers falling out of my hands. I never heard them hit the ground. The pattern of infrequent appearances I’d experienced with the Marsters continued throughout the 1930s, then came a long spell of darkness, both for myself and the country.

  Another war came, even greater than first and the house was used by the military. I had little awareness of this period until much later when I read about the workings of the Royal Observer Corp at Heachley. In secret, they spied upon the planes flying overhead, plotting positions of enemy aircraft. Only once did I come to be in the house during their occupation. I stirred from the closet and ventured out.

  I gave the solitary woman quite a surprise as I shot downstairs.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ She backed herself against a wall, her eyes wide with alarm. I suspected I looked somewhat pale, dishevelled and equally bewildered.

  ‘Uh, window cleaner,’ I declared. What year is it? How long had passed since my last manifestation?

  ‘I don’t remember the lieutenant mentioning a window cleaner.’ She eased off the wall and from her pocket she dug out a cigarette and lit it. ‘You didn’t half give me a shock. The others have all gone to the pub to celebrate the news – the end of this bleedin’ war. Left me in charge, only time ever.’ She guffawed and sucked on her cigarette. ‘Where’s your bucket?’

  I watched transfixed by the smoke spewing out of her mouth. She stood unladylike with legs apart, wearing a blue uniform with a skirt that came to just below her knees. I’d seen such garb on Mrs Melrose, but could not recall the skirt as short as the knee. The elderly Mrs Melrose wore hers to above the ankle.

  The young woman had short hair, tucked about her face, rather than tied back in a bun. Her lips were painted bright red and her eyes blackened at the edges. When I failed to answer, she raised her eyebrows, which were neatly trimmed and her forehead creased with worried lines.

  ‘I was checking access,’ I explained. ‘I’ll go get my bucket.’

  I hurried downstairs, grateful that my legs always sprung into action when I returned from my unearthly state. The kitchen had been changed, more cupboards with bare oak doors rather than the whitewashed ones. In the scullery, I caught a glimpse of a round bowl on legs: my first washing machine. I opened a cupboard, wondering where the bucket might be kept and slammed it shut.

  What had I been thinking? I didn’t know how to clean a window. Abandoning my preposterous idea, I dashed out of the house. There on the front drive were two motor vehicles, so different from the ones I’d seen before. These were less box like in the middle, rounded at the rear and larger, elegant almost. I reached out to touch one, when something else distracted me.

  A whirring noise came thundering out of the skies. I stared up, seeing what looked like a rigid bird flying high above the trees. A bird with metal wings. I’d no comprehension of flying machines, how big they were, how loud they could be. The last pictures I’d seen of such things had shown wooden structures with cloth, bouncing along the ground. I ran, covering my ears, stumbling past nearly familiar trees, which were loftier than last time I’d seen them, but still upright. I sought out my meagre hut.

  There it stood, unchanged and neglected, the interior overwhelmed by cobwebs and layers of dust. The old lantern remained on the table, as did the few personal objects I’d collected over the years, including a metal box in which I’d stored my tragic letters. Those papers had lain in boxes in the cellar and ignored by subsequent occupiers. During my erratic visits, and when chance permitted, I had retrieved any remembrance of the Isaack family and hid them in the cabin.

  I shook out the bedding, brushed away the leaves and mouse droppings, before crashing on the mattress in despair. Too much time had passed for me to comprehend what I’d witnessed at Heachley Hall.

  With a blink of my eyelids, I was gone again.

  The Hinderton Affair (1947–1953)

  August 2nd, 1966

  For the next twenty years I continued my nomadic existence in time; sporadically jumping forward, sometimes in days or months, but rarely years. The next family to arrive at Heachley Hall was named Hinderton. Mr Hinderton was a wealthy businessman with interests in shoe manufacturing. His wife happily amassed a great store of footwear to try out on his behalf. Through her constant changing attire, and her need to appear attractive, I observed the shifting fashions.

  They had no need of a gardener, they’d another who came intermittently to mow the lawn and weed the flowerbeds. I never saw this man, his arrival heralded one of my many departures. Instead, I offered myself as a handyman and Mrs Hinderton with her nylon stockings and swirling skirts always seemed to find something for me to do: painting, joinery and wallpapering, which I found most tedious. I listened to her on the telephone, a contraption I now accepted as not magical, but simply beyond my limited comprehension. Other machines appeared throughout their tenure: the refrigerator amazed me, as my experience of cold storage had been icehouses. The first occasion I witnessed the television switched on, I could not contain my excitement.

  I crouched down before the cabinet, which housed the picture box, and gawped at the moving figures, cocking my ear to hear the crackling speech. I poked at the glass and peered behind the back of the wooden cabinet at the cables. Mrs Hinderton giggled at my fixation—’had I not been to the cinema?’ she’d asked. I lied and said, yes, but that the television, given my poor upbringing, was a fantastical object and one I could not afford. She agreed – the Hinderton family were privileged.

  She paid me, but I had nowhere to spend my money. Consequently, I stole. Mr Hinderton was on the short side and his clothes fitted me poorly, necessitating the sewing of extensions on to the trousers. If Mrs Hinderton guessed at my ruse, she showed no inkling of the origins of those stolen clothes. I always picked the ones at the back of the wardrobe or bundled into bags to be given to charity.

  She invited me to watch the coronation of the Queen Elizabeth. Another monarch to add to my tally. With the whole family in attendance and some of the village folk, I would not be in my corporeal form. I shrugged off her invitation, saying I had other matters to attend to that day: an excuse I used frequently.

  Afterwards, I emerged from the cellar. The house had emptied of visitors along with her husband and son and I crept upstairs and out of the back door. As I walked towards the murky woods, Mrs Hinderton called after me. ‘Charles,’ she sai
d softly, almost too quiet for my hearing. ‘Do come in, won’t you.’

  I pivoted to find her stood on the doorstep, resting her back against the frame with her mouth slightly open and her tongue circling her pink lips. She ran the palm of her hand down her side, smoothing out the ruffles of her dress and it hovered by her hips, stroking up and down. She had a fine figure and elegant legs. In my era, men wooed women, not the other way around. Regardless of protocols, I’d no doubt what she sought from me.

  Was I capable of consummating a frivolous affair without death arriving to whisk me to hell? It mattered little. I presumed an opportunistic sexual liaison would not meet the conditions required to release me from immortality. If I did not reciprocate with true love, the curse would remain unbroken. My natural ability to perform remained untainted by my state, something I am ashamed to admit to. Should I have allowed her to court my affection? The intrigue, and my curiosity, wiped away the guilt of interfering with a married woman. Mr Hinderton, from what I’d ascertained, merely came and went at meal times, often returning home late in the evening; hardly the behaviour of a doting husband.

  However, if her husband returned, would I vanish before her eyes? She might scream, denounce the house as haunted and uninhabitable. How would I fare if Heachley Hall was turned into a freak show that people visited expecting to see the ghost of Charles. Perhaps it did not matter as she would not say a word to anyone for fear of accusation of adultery. Law in my time had been harsh towards those who committed the sin; however, would the world of 1953 judge it as harshly?

  Naturally, I was curious for other reasons. My curse restrained my desire to fall in love, and frankly, given my wayward appearances, I’d little opportunity to become enamoured with a woman. However, I was a flesh and blood human with urges that I’d crushed long ago. Now that they’d reawoken I stepped towards the door.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Hinderton, is there something I can do for you?’

  ‘Please, call me Vanessa.’ She swung her hips as she walked and I followed her into the scullery.

  ‘It’s a pity you missed the coronation. So grand, quite glamorous and to see it on the television, most amazing. Some people managed to see it in colour, can you image that?’ She lit a cigarette and wafted the burning match in front of her before tossing it into the sink.

  ‘No.’ I generally keep my answers short when I have little understanding of the purpose of the conversation. A habit that has saved me from ignorance on numerous occasions over the decades.

  ‘Of course, you are of limited means.’ She puffed out a smoke ring and it floated upwards before disintegrating. I hovered, debating whether to scarper, when she sauntered across the room and pounced, hooking her hand around my neck, she drew my head down to meet her lips. I smelt tobacco and perfume bundled into a strange concoction. Her lips were warm, suitably moist and inviting. I tasted them and, as she darted her tongue into my mouth, I found her methods pleasant. Then, I waited, wondering if some emotional eruption would take over me, but though I seemed capable of responding physically, I felt not one iota of warm feelings towards her.

  ‘My husband and son have gone to the pub to celebrate. They’ll be some time. Come.’ She took my hand, leading me upstairs to her bedroom. I continued in the vein of curiosity, but also I wished company. It had been many lifetimes since I’d had intimate contact with a woman and although I’d given my heart to another once, I’d squandered that affection, resulting in my cursed existence.

  ‘I…I have scars,’ I declared as she began to unbutton my shirt.

  ‘Many men left the war with scars.’ She’d made an assumption and I let her believe it. My age always seemed to confuse those who met me. My style of hair I’d kept short in keeping with the current fashion. I discovered after trimming it, the hairs would grow back but no farther than when I first reappeared. My smooth skin, dark hair and firm muscles maintained my youthful appearance, whereas my manners and speech appealed to those who thought I was older. Vanessa Hinderton appeared not to mind what age I might be, since I clearly had a hold over her.

  She complimented me on my performance afterwards, my attentiveness to her needs, although she hinted I had been swift in my approach. I had not the heart to warn her that the moment her husband reappeared I’d vanish before her eyes. Time was not on our side.

  Throughout our brief coupling between the sheets of her bed, my emotions had failed to demonstrate anything more than carnal excitement. I’d lusted for her, as she had a glorious body and comely features, but nothing else materialised. She’d squawked in the moment of rapture, eager to show her pleasure and I found it somewhat excessive and unnecessary.

  She’d insisted I used a rubber sheath, which she had retrieved from her bedside drawer. I’d accommodated her wishes. However, when I came to tidy up my person, I discovered that even though I’d experienced the delight of the spend, I had not produced one drop of liquid. I hid the evidence, believing my inadequacy was a symptom of my condition.

  For a while, we lay side by side. She offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined having lost all interest in the taste since my ghostly term had begun. Did she realise that she’d made love to an apparition?

  I find it hard to think of myself as a ghost, especially when I have no ability to pass through walls or hover up to the ceiling. I smiled and she mistook that to mean I was content, whereas in reality, I merely felt relief that her husband had not returned, causing me to vanish mid-act. Nor had I suffered the true parting of my soul from my earthly body, which would have released me from my undead existence. I doubted Vanessa loved me. Consequently, the curse remained in place.

  She thanked me, quite sweetly. ‘I do love Jeffery, but he’s not the same man I married. I suspect he’s fucking a woman in the village given the hours he keeps. As for that sod I call my son, he’s no better.’

  ‘I’m sorry that you are not happy.’

  ‘Oh, I’m happy, in my own way.’ She traced a finger along the reddish scar that ringed one of my nipples. ‘How did you come by these?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t really remember.’ Which happened to be the truth, I didn’t recall the details, although I knew they’d been caused by fire, and that conflagration had been here at Heachley Hall and resulted in my not so complete death.

  ‘They look painful.’

  ‘Once, they were, not now.’ I’d never known them to cause me discomfort; nevertheless, they served as an indelible reminder of the life I’d once lived.

  Our affair lasted a few weeks. Conveniently, she would harry her husband and son to leave the house on some business or other, so that she might invite me to her bed. I dutifully performed my role in a detached manner. I concluded that sex was not what she sought because afterwards she seemed to be quite talkative and spent more time incessantly nattering about her family and friends than she did in exploiting my manhood. I inattentively listened, my mind wandering as she sucked on her compulsory cigarette. What drew me back to her bed proved difficult to comprehend as I certainly did not love the woman; attractive as she might be, she had little in her nature that appealed to me. My need was more basic – companionship – and even if Vanessa lacked the intellectual capacity to thrill, she did at least welcome me into the house.

  Towards the end of the coronation year Mr Hinderton’s company went bankrupt. Vanessa tearfully announced their misfortune as I dismantled the bookshelves in the library.

  ‘The useless rat has drunk it away, I’m sure.’ She blew her nose ineffectively into her handkerchief. ‘We can’t afford the rent and we’re moving to ghastly Peterborough to a measly townhouse.’

  I commiserated. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  ‘You’ve been a sport, Charles, keeping me company.’ She ran her finger along the mantelpiece, staring right past me to a picture on the wall. The diamond ring she wore flashed brightly. I suspected she’d have to sell it. She sighed. ‘I’ll miss you, too.’

  That was the last time I saw her. I piled the shelves into a
corner and went to fetch a hammer from the shed. I never made it that far: I vanished somewhere between the hallway and the kitchen.

  My inability to stay put often proves an encumbrance at the most inopportune moments. I frequently had to find excuses for my sudden absences, and also my lack of permanent abode, which meant as a consequence, I’d no apparent address. Due to the rise in popularity of the motorcar, my ability to appear at will without transport issues caused some degree of puzzlement from time to time.

  I’ve learnt to think quickly on my feet, to cover up my ignorance of the ever-changing world beyond Heachley’s wall, which I can neither see nor experience directly. Lying on my bed in my hut, as I will tonight, I dream of cities with their skyscrapers and terrifying traffic, and I draw mental images of picturesque mountains, lakes and the oceans. How I miss the rippling light on the sea and the crashing of white frosted waves.

  Eventually, I was forced to emerge from my stupefaction by the arrival of a female at Heachley. She, unwittingly and unknowingly, transported me, without warning, back into the house.

  The new arrival I shall write about brings me both joy and sadness.

  ·•●•·

  Somewhat flabbergasted at Charles’s affair with a married woman, I broke off reading and dispatched him a raised eyebrow. This time, his eyes were open and receptive.

  ‘Vanessa?’ I tapped the journal entry.

  ‘I am a flesh and bone man,’ he said sheepishly. ‘The need was…organic.’

  I chuckled softly. I wasn’t upset by his adventurous spirit. I was hardly a virgin either. ‘You don’t need to apologise. I guess she was quite insistent?’

  Charles’s familiar crooked smile formed. ‘Yes. And, I had to find out for sure. Sadly, nothing came of that experiment. If it had, I suppose I wouldn’t have met you,’ he added. ‘Or…’ he released a small sigh. ‘I’m spoiling it. Please, continue.’

  Keen to read on, I lifted the journal and turned the page.