The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  The Branston Family (1953–1965)

  August 6th, 1966

  I tripped on something lying on the cellar floor. Shuffling my feet forward, I scraped my fingernails along the outside wall until I found the candle and matches I’d left in a small recess. Lighting the wick, I used the light to guide me towards the far door.

  Various discarded objects had accumulated on the ground, hindering my path. Their scattering indicated another passage of time. The chute remained in use, but the coal was no longer burnt in the boiler, it only served the fireplaces. During the Hinderton’s stay, the absent landlord, John Marsters, had arranged for a new heating system to be installed and when structural weakness had been discovered, he also paid for the additional support columns in the basement. However, to my relief, his appearances had been rare and generally brief.

  Opening the cellar door, daylight danced down the steps almost reaching the basement. I trudged up the stairwell. The fresh air reinvigorated my lungs, dispelling the weight of inertia from my limbs and the brisk draught scattered the usual accompaniment of dust from my clothing.

  She screamed. A high pierce shriek, which only a small child can produce with little effort. The shrill cry almost shattered my eardrums and before I could calm her down, the young girl skedaddled out of the scullery, calling for her mother.

  I used the opportunity to escape and ran for it, praying the familiar mist that typically greeted my arrival in the woods would come to my rescue.

  That was my first encounter with Primrose Branston, daughter of Louise Branston. Unsure whether the girl had reported my trespassing, I hid behind the trees and waited, wondering if the new tenants would hunt me down. However, no search transpired nor had the police arrived, instead the end of day darkness replaced the mist. I retreated to the hut.

  For a few days I watched the house – the husband absent for the duration of my spying. The weather improved and Louise, with her long, saffron hair that flowed and bounced against her cheeks, emerged outside. She wore a floral patterned dress with its narrow waist and broad skirt, which was common for the 1950s. With the summer heat baking the garden, she reclined on a deckchair under a sun parasol and read, while Primrose chased butterflies. Louise was a spellbinding beauty. For the first time in decades I awoke forgotten feelings and allowed them to evolve.

  Unlike when I inhabited the hall, servants no longer lived at Heachley. Most tenants relied on domestic staff who came and went as needed. This situation yielded advantages for me and I approached her, clearing my throat in a less than subtle fashion.

  ‘Hello, sorry to disturb.’ I tugged my forelocks.

  Louise rose and laid her book down on the chair. ‘Yes?’ She frowned, but the downturn in her lips barely impacted her beauty. If I were capable of a deep blush, then such a flush of redness would have been apparent on my face. She called for the child to stand close to her. I hesitated, waiting for the girl to recognise me, but she merely hid behind her mother’s skirt.

  I pointed across the lawn. ‘I noticed your roses need pruning and the laurels in the corner have blocked the sunlight. I work as a gardener, a handyman, too. May I offer you my services?’

  She asked my name and I gave it. ‘Oh, yes. Mrs Hinderton mentioned you. We took over the tenancy. My husband is a lawyer and he is away in London, working at the courts there.’

  My work was assigned, the pay negotiated, too. How fast money loses its value. What once would have been a monthly income in my day was now a daily fee.

  ‘Mother.’ The cry came from a bedroom window. An adolescent girl hung her head out, her dark hair swaying the breeze. ‘Where’s my green dress?’

  Louise sighed, rolled her eyes with the seeming ease of practice, and called up to the sour faced child. ‘In the ironing pile.’

  ‘No,’ she shrilled in reply. ‘You promised me it would be ready for this evening.’

  ‘I promised you it would be washed, not ironed.’ Louise slowly shook her head; a gesture of despair. ‘My daughter, Mary. I apologise, she is not in the best of moods. After living in London, she hates being here, but Terry and I wanted very much to live in the country, by the sea, for Primrose’s sake.’

  ‘It is near to the sea here,’ I agreed. There had been a time I could smell the sea from Heachley Hall, now I have little sense of smell or taste.

  She swept aside the blonde locks of hair from her daughter’s face. ‘Come, Primrose, say hello to Charles.’

  I fell in love with Louise, but unlike Vanessa who seduced me into her bed, Louise was the loyal wife and devoted to her frequently absent husband. I could only admire from afar, as I planted clematis, buried tulip bulbs and picked apples from the yellowing trees. In my determination to avoid suspicious behaviour, I held fast to the pretence of indifference. The pain of unrequited love was great, and no matter how hard I tried to vanquish that cursed emotion, I failed. In a blink of the eye, Louise’s dazzling smile or some other small gesture of friendship rekindled it.

  During the dregs of the summer’s day, I bit back my frustration and listened with quiet fortitude as Louise battled with Mary; the arguments between teenager and mother flew out the windows and into the garden. Women had acquired much freedom since my birth, but the changing way of life brought with it a lack of respect and the diminishing authority of parents. Following my father’s demand, I had turned my back on everything of importance: my lover and my unborn child. The emancipation of women I admire. What next, a woman prime minister? I pushed the wheelbarrow to the rear of the garden by the outer wall. There I worked, whistling to myself.

  In the distance I heard a car, the engine purring in the adjacent lane. I laid down my shears, closed my eyes and within moments I was gone from the garden.

  Did anyone suspect that they had a ghost in their midst? Had my ability to evaporate into nothing been witnessed? My behaviour must have appeared extremely suspicious on many occasions. I’d once been caught coming downstairs from the closet by Mrs Melrose. I’d excused myself by telling her rather bashfully that I needed the bathroom and felt ashamed at relieving myself in the garden. She’d admonished me for not asking permission, but my excuse had been considered plausible, as she had not queried it. Sometimes, I’d concluded that other servants thought me mad or simple; the village idiot abandoned by an indifferent family and left to seek employment. I’d done nothing to dispel some of those rumours; they worked in my favour.

  With each new occupant I had refrained from mentioning my long dead family. I’d manufactured fictional male companions. It tortured me to do so as I sorely missed the company of men. I’d kept my stories simple: trips to the horse races – using newspaper reports to describe the races I’d supposedly seen; the cinema – I resorted to regurgitating reviews, and so on. My imaginary life was packed with creative non-existent events and the recounting of each fabricated tale caused an ache in my lonely heart.

  Dogs were especially bemused by my presence. The labrador, who lived with the Branstons, treated me, as do most creatures, with indifference. I’d expected barking or growling on my first encounter, something to arouse suspicion, but rather it appears I have no scent.

  I’d grown accustomed to the nonchalant behaviour of the woodland animals, including the adventurous squirrels who bounce off my head and the sparrows who feed out of my hand. I am an object, not a being, and it re-enforces my incompleteness, my departure from normality.

  Since my work was often solitary and enabled me to labour in isolated parts of the garden, I left my employees with the assumption I’d simply abandoned my tasks, which unfortunately, was not good practice, and on many occasions I had been reprimanded by the lady of the house about my sudden absences. I practised an apologetic expression and various plausible, but vague excuses. Mostly, I re-enforced the notion I was a mere labourer, unimportant and not worthy of their attention.

  When working indoors I had to politely enquire when the man of the house might return, then excuse myself before his arrival. Unexpecte
d callers proved to be most difficult and I prayed that in the eventuality of their arrival I would vanish without an audience. To help with the subterfuge and to afford the privacy I needed, I’d chosen one of the outbuildings as my workspace, and within those cold walls I maintained my activities. These various evasive techniques had proved sufficient until a small child occupied the house.

  Primrose followed me wherever I went clutching a rosy cheeked china doll. At first, she said nothing, but as she overcame her shyness, she chattered, asking me endless questions. Factual ones, such as why petals were different colours, I endeavoured to answer to the best of my ability, but other personal questions proved trickier. Was I married, did I have children, where did I live, and so on. I made up a fantasy world, because it seemed the easiest solution and whether she believed in the magical land of Charles, it did not matter. Her mother found it amusing when Primrose informed her that I lived in an underwater palace by the sea.

  Another ploy I used to protect myself was to play hide and seek in the garden. She loved to hide and it kept her occupied, and if I hid, it gave me the opportunity to escape her. Sometimes she cried, frustrated by her fruitless search. In reply I gritted my teeth at the distress I’d caused, but the trickery was necessary to demonstrate my unreliability.

  Sometimes, I truly vanished. Whether she cried or not on those occasions, I knew not.

  A little before her seventh birthday her father came home from his offices in Norwich somewhat earlier than usual. Primrose had been digging holes to plant seeds – I took great pleasure in encouraging her interest in gardening – and she turned and began to smile. As the numbness struck, her eyes widened and her mouth gaped. I tried to speak, to offer words of comfort, but I disappeared too fast.

  Had she told her mother? Ran indoors? Screamed? I could only guess at the nature of her shock. After the weekend, when Mr Branston returned to London, I lit my candle and tiptoed out of the cellar. Should I hide in the woods in the cabin or simply attend to my business as if nothing had happened? I chose the latter, on the basis I would laugh off Primrose’s story as a childish fantasy.

  The unhappy Mary was in the garden and when I calmly raked up the dead leaves she remained, unperturbed by my presence. Basing my reasoning on her reaction, I assumed my return had been expected.

  ‘Hello, Charles.’ She kicked at the pile of leaves.

  ‘Miss Mary.’ Ignoring her disruptive behaviour, I shovelled the scattered leaves into the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Primrose thinks you’re a wizard,’ she announced.

  ‘Does she?’ With my head bowed, I presented Mary my rigid back, the spine locked in tension.

  ‘She is a silly creature. She says you vanished into thin air, right before her eyes.’ Mary laughed.

  I put much effort into my chuckles, while continuing to rake the crisp leaves. ‘She likes to play hide and seek with me, that’s all.’

  ‘Mother thinks the house is haunted.’

  I tightened my hands about the rake. ‘She does?’ I swallowed hard. My heart should have pounded hard and the sweat should have formed on my brow, but my body never responds in tandem with my emotions. Feelings – those that exemplify raw, nervous energy – always remain locked in my mind and never manifest themselves in a physical response.

  ‘She claims she hears strange noises – banging and the like – and she thinks the dust is weird, how it appears all the time. Personally, I think she watches too many scary films. She’s hooked on this Quatermass Experiment television show. I’m not allowed to watch it. Too young.’ Mary spat the last few words out.

  ‘If it scares her then it can’t be appropriate for a child.’ I scrunched the leaves down to the bottom of the wheelbarrow.

  ‘I’m not a child,’ she declared and stamped her foot on the ground.

  I stood straight and leaned on the rake. For nearly sixty years I’d shared my existence, such as it was, with females, mostly adults and throughout, I’d adapted my responses to their nature. I’d learnt to listen, not judge, to express sympathy and platitudes, rather than criticisms or what appeared to me to be obvious practical solutions. Women throughout those decades – even with their rising status in society that gave them the vote, the right to divorce, and to own property independently – reacted with little variety. Each generation take advantage of these social developments, but emotionally, women seem equipped the same.

  Regardless of my experiences, an immature teenager was new territory. ‘I gather you are a child until you’re eighteen.’

  ‘I’m eighteen next month,’ she sneered.

  Her age surprised me, I’d thought her sixteen, at most. ‘Then, might I suggest you act that age.’

  She glared, her lips trembling and her eyes turning into the dark moons of wide-eyed indignation. Tossing her head to one side, she stomped back into the house and I concentrated on the raking.

  On another day, Louise requested I replace the light bulb in the library. Electricity unnerves me. It has taken many years to accept it isn’t magic or dangerous if used wisely. I learnt that lesson when I fiddled with a plug socket with wet hands. Naturally, on that occasion, the electrocution did not kill me, as I am already quite dead.

  I stood on a tall stool and twisted the bulb, unscrewing it slowly. Louise reached up and handed me the new one. ‘You said something to Mary the other day, I’m not sure what, but she seems to be less obstructive than usual.’

  ‘She is a challenging young lady.’ I replied tactically, then secured the new bulb.

  Louise chuckled. ‘Oh, how true. The little minx has spent most her childhood determined to resist me as her mother. To Terry, she is all sweetness and courtesy. Me, she snarls and sulks, reminding us constantly that I am not hers.’

  I looked down straight into her delicate blue eyes; they had a watery film glazed over their surface. ‘Not hers?’ I jumped off the stool.

  Louise walked over to a bookcase and traced her forefinger along the spine of one of the books. ‘Yes, not mine. Mary is my step-daughter.’

  The revelation explained much about Mary and Louise’s often fraught relationship. ‘Mr Branston was married before?’

  Her head hung lower and her trembling finger slipped off the edge of the book. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  I waited, patiently, as she battled with her emotions. ‘She was born just before the war. An unexpected outcome. Terry, in his youth, foolishly got carried away with a neighbour’s daughter. Mary was the product. I do believe that he would have married her, but the war interfered. He joined the army, as many excited young men did in the beginning, and she remained in London with little Mary.’

  I sat on the stool. Louise’s recounting of Terry and his lover seemed to mirror my sad affair all too closely. ‘Did she not wait for him?’

  ‘Oh, I think she did. They wrote to one another. Terry still has the letters in his bureau.’ She turned to face me and a lone tear trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away. ‘Poor Mary. Her mother died in a bomb raid. They’d not made it to the shelter in time. Mary survived and remained in the care of her grandparents until Terry returned.’

  ‘He honoured the memory of his lover by accepting Mary as his,’ I said with a satisfactory nod.

  Louise graced her face with one of her beautiful smiles. ‘What a sweet way you have with words, quite quaint. The grandparents couldn’t afford to keep her and left her at his door. By then, he was determined to finish his studies and practice law. She was an impediment. She desperately, so desperately, craves his attention. I think when he looks at Mary, he sees her mother and the image haunts him.’

  I clenched my hands into tight fists and crushed a cry of despair. Would that have been my child’s future, if she’d survived birth? Would I have been brave enough to fight Father’s abhorrence and take my child under my wing, just as Terry had done? I will never know, will I? It is too late.

  ‘I’ve made you sad. I’m sorry.’ Louise rested her hand on my shoulder and I jerked. The one and only
time she touched me and I repelled her. Such irony, because inside, I would have liked for her to have fostered more than a gentle offering of comfort.

  I rose and stepped backwards. ‘No, not at all. I’m sad for Mary. It explains her difficult behaviour.’

  ‘Growing up illegitimate, even in these modern days, is still scorned upon. I have re-enforced over and over to her that I am her legitimate mother and will always care for her, but I’m not good enough.’

  ‘Does she have any contact with her mother’s family?’

  ‘None. Her grandparents passed away.’

  ‘A shame,’ I redirected her attention to the bulb, gesturing upwards. ‘Done. Is there anything else you need from me?’ Oh, that question slipped out, unintentional in its delivery and today it still troubles me: the hope I had that she might express some kind of affinity toward me. But, naturally, she had no such thoughts.

  She picked up a book from the desk and turned to face the shelves. ‘Yes, actually, there is. We’ve run out of space. Could you make us another bookcase, to stand over there?’ She pointed at the remaining bare wall on the other side of the room.

  ‘It would be my pleasure. I love books.’

  ‘You do?’ She quickly smothered her mouth with her hand. ‘I’m sorry, that’s awfully rude of me. Why not, just because you work with your hands. What do you like to read?’

  We passed the time talking about our favourite authors; how I loved the fantasy of Tolkien and the intrigue of Agatha Christie. All these books I’d borrowed from Heachley Hall’s library, sometimes with permission, mostly without. I’d always returned them. I was surprised nobody declared a mysterious book borrower haunted the library.

  Louise generously gave me free rein to read whatever I liked without asking first. ‘As long as it’s not one of Terry’s precious law books.’

  I assured her that such books did not interest me. Then the clock on the mantelpiece chimed and I realised it would not be long before Terry returned. ‘I should be going.’ I grabbed the stool and backed out of the door. ‘I’ll get to work on those shelves as soon as I can. I might have other jobs to do elsewhere for a while.’