The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  It was two weeks later when Terry finally left the house, he’d lain ill with the influenza, preventing my return. When I materialised, I measured the wall in the library as if I’d been gone but a few hours, the delightful conversation with my fellow book lover still fresh in my mind.

  Having completed the task and been paid with useless money, Louise announced the landlord, John Marsters, was due to visit to inspect his property. In a rush of anxiety, driven by the fear he might find fault with their tenancy, Louise tasked me with a few ‘tidying up’ jobs. No sooner had I finished them, I vanished again for a protracted period.

  The closet welcomed me back. As was my custom, I stood still and listened, ignoring the oppressive darkness. I didn’t have to listen hard; Mary was shouting. ‘You hate me. You always had done.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Louise replied. ‘I love you as my own.’

  ‘You say that to keep Dad happy.’

  ‘Your father is most unhappy with all of us,’ Louise snapped. ‘You’re being foolish.’

  ‘I’m in love,’ declared her step-daughter emphatically. ‘How is that foolish?’

  ‘With a man nearly twice your age?’

  I heard the indignation and exasperation in her tone of voice as she continued to chastise Mary. ‘Your father and I are in agreement. You will end this liaison immediately. You will write to John Marsters and insist he ends all contact with you.’

  ‘I shall not!’ A door slammed shut.

  The argument continued unproductively for some time. There were more door slams, stamping of feet and poor Primrose sobbing in the background. I never made it out of the closet. Somebody else arrived, probably Mr Branston, and interrupted my eavesdropping.

  I jumped from the closet to the cellar, which often happens when I fail to escape one portal: I mysteriously appear in the other location at a later time. On this occasion I crept out of the gloom, exited the back door and knocked on the front, keen to know what had happened in my absence.

  Louise opened the door. She clutched a handkerchief. ‘Charles, I’m sorry. I’ve nothing for you to do.’ She dabbed at her nose and red-rimmed eyes.

  The notion of walking away from a distressed Louise was impossible. ‘Mrs Branston, I cannot possibly leave you in this state.’

  She let me in, reluctantly, shuffling her feet to one side.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Is Primrose all right? Your husband, Mary—’

  ‘Mary has gone. She eloped with John Marsters.’ She spat out his name. ‘She, barely twenty years old, with a man we know little about beyond being our absent landlord.’

  I followed her into the kitchen. She filled the kettle and slammed it down onto the stove. ‘What do I tell her friends? The gossip mongers in Little Knottisham? It’s embarrassing. He came to visit, she fawned all over him – admittedly he’s a handsome man – and he toyed with her, like a play thing. She stupidly fell for his ingratiating behaviour and I did nothing to stop it, according to Terry, who’s livid and won’t speak to me.’

  ‘Surely Marsters didn’t stay here?’

  ‘No, he took up residence in the pub. An extended stay, unfortunately, and right under our noses. She swanned down there every evening, flirting with him. Terry can’t control her, so what hope had I? How could that bastard snatch her away? She may no longer be a child, but she’s certainly immature. But what could we do to stop her?’

  Why hadn’t they? Was there no threat to persuade her from leaving? I recalled my father demanding I gave up Beatrice. I’d fallen in love with a Gypsy, an outcast from society. Bea had betrayed her own kind and ended up in a workhouse without them knowing or seeking her out until too late.

  I imagined Bea’s despair at the thought of her family finding out and the dishonour of being shunned by their segregated community. Bea had held fast to her love, while I had abandoned it without standing up to Father. My mercenary attitude had been driven by my inheritance and reputation. In the absence of her itinerant parent, she’d tried in vain to contact me.

  It came back to me then, and still does now, the memory of her last visit to Heachley Hall; the one before she entered the workhouse. I’d stood at the morning room window, hearing her distant screams as she’d attempted to open the locked gates. Over and over, she’d called out my name, beating her hands against the cold metal while Father stood guard over me and my unsupportive brother cowered in his room. I’d frozen rigid, fighting the desire to dash out and embrace her. Throughout her pleading, Father repeatedly threatened to disinherit me if I budged from the room. At twenty-nine years old, I was ambitious and selfish, and none of these traits would help save my lover. I’d closed the drapes and that had been the last time I saw Bea.

  ‘Let her go,’ I murmured to Louise. ‘Yes, she might regret it, discover life is harder than she imagines, but it’s her choice. Don’t interfere.’

  Louise lashed out. ‘How can you know? You have no children.’

  I bowed my head. ‘I once abandoned my lover. I regret it. Maybe he will show her tenderness, treat her well. You cannot assume he is wrong for her just because they have little in common.’

  Louise sighed. ‘He’s nearly twice her age, Charles. They’ve more than nothing in common.’

  The kettle whistled and she removed it from the stove. I declined her offer of tea.

  ‘You never drink what I offer you.’ She spooned the tea into the pot.

  ‘I don’t like tea or coffee.’ I lied. I loved both and missed the flavours: the bergamot of an Earl Grey; the bitterness of the coffee bean. These were only memories. My taste buds remained inert, my belly empty and undemanding. Nothing I smelt or saw changed my inability to eat or drink.

  ‘Let her go?’ Louise repeated with a deepening sigh. ‘That’s what Terry says and she is his daughter.’

  ‘Are they married?’

  ‘Yes, in Gretna. Now they’re in Paris. We had a postcard. I’d been tearing my hair out with worry since I found her note on her pillow. So childish, she’d written such sentimental twaddle.’

  ‘He married her. That’s not the action of a frivolous admirer,’ I remarked, sensing my optimism outshone hers.

  ‘True.’ She poured the tea through the strainer. ‘We’ll have to wait, shan’t we? It has affected Terry more than I imagined. It has broken him, for all his bravado, and it’s brought back his own sad memories.’

  ‘You stand by him.’

  ‘I love him, even if he…’ the tea dripped slowly out of the strainer. ‘He loves me in his own sweet way.’ She stared into teacup, unsmiling.

  ‘But not equally.’ How I envied Terry and also wished he were a better husband. Two dichotomous feelings battled inside me.

  ‘Is there such a thing? Are all lovers equal in sincerity or is it an imbalance of emotion, rarely, if ever perfect?’

  I didn’t answer. I sensed I had given her sufficient reassurances and I had to leave; I could do little, as I couldn’t hold her, kiss away the tears or show my love. She was right. Love didn’t always balance out: freely given, but not necessarily returned in an equivalent measure. I remained captive at Heachley with no chance of finding a lover of equal passion.

  ·•●•·

  I had to wipe away the beginnings of teardrop from my eye before reading on.

  Charles twisted to face me, caught my hand and squeezed it. ‘What?’ he said with obvious concern in his voice.

  ‘You and Louise. So sad,’ I rested my other hand on the page, covering up the words of a lover.

  ‘How could I countenance acting on my feelings and ruining our friendship? It wasn’t just the curse preventing me. She had children. A life bound to a man whom, for whatever reason, she loved.’ He looked expectantly at me, as if yearning for approval.

  I admired him so much in that moment and I offered in a reassuring smile in reply. He let go of my hand. At that point in his story he seemed so isolated, rather like I’d been when I first moved into Heachley. But, there was hope for us. He’d admitted t
o feeling love again. I felt a welcome fluttering in my stomach. I had to keep reading and find out what became of Louise and her children, because I knew who Mary was now and it astounded me that Charles had actually met her, and several times.

  ·•●•·

  Louise’s sad affairs didn’t end with Mary’s elopement. Terry lost his job and he accepted a lesser position at a solicitor’s in King’s Lynn. Without Terry’s prolonged absences in London, and due to his spells of ill-health, my appearances grew increasing erratic.

  After what must have been a substantial amount of time, I knocked hard on the front door.

  ‘Charles,’ she exclaimed. ‘Where have you been, it’s been weeks, no, months surely? We had a tree come down in a storm. It nearly landed on the house. We needed you. I do wish you could afford a phone.’

  The expense of a telephone had helped maintain my incognito whereabouts. However, little else could explain my haphazard appearances. For whatever reason, Louise never quizzed those absences. Maybe she saw me as unimportant and easy to forget, but that isn’t how I wish to remember her. Her tired eyes and wrinkles, I ignored, because I met her each time with a renewed sensed of longing. Those months apart for her, which to me often felt like hours, turned swiftly into years. I strove to acclimatise to the constantly changing world to which I emerged. I grew my hair longer, in keeping with the pictures I saw in the discarded newspapers, and purloined Terry’s discarded clothes, altering them to hide their origins.

  Sometime early in 1965, I r-materialised again and much to my sorrow discovered packing chests and boxes lining the hallway. Having surreptitiously made my way to the front of the house, Louise welcome me indoors with a beaming, if fragile smile.

  ‘We’re moving out. Could you dismantle that beautiful bookcase you made? We want to take it with us.’ She ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Deep shadows framed her bright eyes and the end of her nose seemed reddish, as if she’d been crying. Even with those impediments the beauty within her remained visible, burning like a fire. From upstairs came a childish giggle followed by a whoop. Primrose? It couldn’t be, she would be a teenager by now. Louise followed the track of my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Mary is here with my granddaughter – Anna.’

  There was a pattering of footsteps coming downstairs and a young girl of five years or so dashed passed me. ‘Catch me’ she shrieked. Stomping after the child, with her blonde hair tied back into a bun and wearing a ridiculously short skirt and knee high boots, came Primrose – I gasped, she appeared fully grown.

  ‘Charles.’ A delightful smile erupted on her face before her next sentence wiped it off again. ‘Mum’s told you? About John?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Keeled over. Heart popped and he’s gone. Mary is beside herself and she’s gone into deep, deep mourning. Refuses to leave her bedroom. I’m left looking after Anna, while Mum packs.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘In Peterborough, sorting out somewhere to live. Such a shame to leave, I love this house.’

  ‘I don’t understand why are you leaving Heachley? Surely, as his widow, the house belongs to Mary?’

  Louise’s face transformed into one of angry dismay, her eyes watering with unshed tears. It caused me anguish to see her upset. ‘We found out John might have left his money, possessions and house in London to Mary, but Heachley Hall now belongs to John’s sister, Felicity Marsters. Mary is relieved. Frankly I’m not surprised, she hated this place. She doesn’t see it as our home or even the income it could generate if sold or leased. She gleefully informed us we’d have to vacate because Felicity, who lives in India, where John was born, is moving in next month.’

  I hung my mouth open, gulping in her words as if they hung in the air. ‘She’s not contesting the will?’

  Louise scowled. ‘Terry has tried to persuade Mary. We don’t know why John didn’t include this place when he wrote this will. As far as Mary knows, John and his sister are estranged.’

  ‘Clearly, he changed his mind.’ I stared at the cardboard boxes stacked on the tiled floor.

  ‘Rosie!’ Anna piped up from the back of the house. ‘Where are you?’

  Primrose raised her eyebrows. ‘Nice to see you again, Charles.’ She went in search of her niece.

  There was nothing I could do. While we chatted one last time, I helped Louise pack the books, dismantled the shelves of the bookcase and other odd hefty jobs she asked me to do. I never had the chance to say goodbye or to wish Louise and Primrose well. I faded, somewhere between the garage and the backdoor. In retrospect, it must have appeared terribly rude, disappearing without explanation, but perhaps it was for the best. Goodbyes are too painful.

  ·•●•·

  ‘You met my mum?’ I couldn’t comprehend the time span that Charles’s time at Heachley covered, nor could I believe that such an apparently young man had known my mother as a small child.

  ‘Yes.’ He’d replied with brevity, as if people’s questions were something of an inconvenience, which I suppose they were to some extent given the restrictions he placed upon himself for answering anything personal. All those mannerisms of his, which I failed to understand over the last few months, now made sense.

  ‘Please, I want to know more. You’re the only person who can tell me.’

  ‘Mary brought your mother here to visit from time to time, once she recovered from the shock of John’s death. Mary rarely stayed long. Felicity put aside her feelings towards her half-brother for Mary and Anna’s sake, partly because he’d left her the house, which initially she saw as a millstone around her neck, but she later came to love. As an adult, your mother came a few times with your father. Mary, her mind slipped away, and stopped visiting.’ He spoke with that soft tone, the one I’d come to appreciate for its soothing ability.

  My pulse started to race. He was speaking of my family as if they were so close in time to us. I quickly turned the page and gasped.

  Felicity Marsters (1966)

  December 2nd, 2015

  I write this in the hope some day it will be read by those who understand the nature of solitude and despair. Sadly this account will not be read by Felicity, who has passed on. I wish it be known how she saved me, brought me back from the brink of madness and offered me companionship.

  ·•●•·

  My aunt. He’d written about Felicity. I’d waited for this. He was the one person who could really explain her to me.

  ‘You did this after I moved in?’ I asked.

  Charles leaned over my shoulder as if to verify what he’d written. ‘She inspired me to start the journal, but when it came to Felicity herself, I couldn’t shape a word of it until you came into my life.’ The dejected tones were back on his face and in his voice. He’d written this for me, not her. I opened my mouth to ask a multitude of questions but he spoke quickly, almost in a pleading whisper.

  ‘Please read, because it’s hard for me to describe those days. I hope I’ve answered some of your questions.’

  ·•●•·

  The moment I stepped out the closet, I knew things were different. Even with my underactive nose, I smelt pungent spices and exotic fragrances. Immediately, upon regaining my vision I saw the first of many strange wall-hangings. Each was an elaborately woven collage depicting distant lands and people; their beauty and originality captivated me.

  The library door was slightly ajar. I peeked through the gap and spied the new owner of Heachley Hall. She wore a rainbow dress as long as her ankles with glittering sequins embroidered onto the sleeves, her raven hair snaked down her back reaching her waistline, and her feet were clad in open sandals. She stood with her back to me placing books on the shelves – the original bookcase, which, since my early years, had remained fixed in the arched alcove. She hummed and the melody was unlike anything I’d heard before. Transfixed by her strange garb, and dangerously close to exposure, I lingered, breathing softly. She paused in her reading, closed the book and snatched a glance over her shoulder. I d
ucked back and tiptoed away on the balls of my nimble feet. Had she seen me? Heard me?

  The only facts I’d gathered about Felicity Marsters had come from Louise before her departure: she had lived all her life in India, she was unmarried and very independent. Beyond these things, I’d no idea what kind of woman she might be. Would she need a handyman or a gardener? What if she spurned my services – how would I live?

  Unlike her predecessors, she lived alone with no gentleman callers, or boyfriends, as they’d become known. Such consistency of isolation and lack of male companionship meant I stayed in corporeal form not for hours, but days upon end. Then, if I vanished, it was for a short spell unless she ventured out on an extended trip. Her constant presence threw me – how to occupy my time, my empty mind?

  Initially, I longed for Louise and consequently, I fell into a pit of depression. I banished myself to the lonely hut and lay on the bed for days, wishing myself gone forever. I confess my pining took me to such a black place in my soul that I tried new ways to escape the curse.

  I hung myself by the neck from a tree branch. My legs swung beneath me and the rope creaked, cutting into the bark, and there I remained, neither dead nor alive, waiting for salvation and receiving none. The cellar rescued me as I suffered another breach in time. I landed on my feet, the rope gone and the enveloping blackness hugged me. Feeling about my neck, there was nothing to show for my futile attempt at termination: no rope burn or scratches.

  Eventually, I emerged from my macabre period of self-destruction and left the hut, weaving through the trees on the path to the house. The mist followed me, as it always did, until I reached the edge of the wood where my protective cocoon slipped away. I stepped forward and knocked on the front door. Tugging on the frayed hem of my shirt, I tucked it back in my trousers.