The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  We’d achieved what he wished – what we both desired. It had been easy, uncomplicated and divine. It seemed a ridiculous tragedy that the best sex I’d ever had was with a ghost.

  The magical moment had occurred late in the evening. We’d taken our time to properly warm to each other, to explore and enjoy what we each had to offer. As I suspected, Charles was not a novice. Although he’d had little opportunity to practise the art of lovemaking, he’d the wisdom of a man of many years trapped in the youthful, energetic form of a twenty-nine year old. It was all I desired in a bedfellow. I’d told him as much as he trailed kisses up and down my squirming body and he’d shushed me, which in turn induced another round of silly giggles.

  What made it special had been the companion of love. Whatever I’d done in the past had lacked that necessary sentiment – the ability to whisper those sweet words as we made love without fear of regret or embarrassment in the morning. My regret took another form and it had been anticipated.

  I sighed and sank into lethargy, allowing it to eclipse my sorrow. My thoughts drifted to the future. I was determined to survive the last few months at Heachley Hall without him. The generous pile of wood would be burnt to a crisp: his last industrious legacy ironically consumed in fire. The weather would improve, the sunshine would warm the interior and the need for heating fuel would expire. If I needed help, I’d Bert and Tony to call upon, and Ruth too; she would visit, as she’d promised.

  Did I tell her about my strange affair with Charles Donaldson? No. She’d probably think I’d gone bonkers with the loneliness and his absence could easily be explained: he’d gone to work elsewhere.

  The house creaked and sighed a soft thud somewhere beneath me. Sounds of movement, except I’d never been as alone as I was that morning. I tensed forming a rigid pole. Footsteps. They grew louder, coming up the squeaky stairs towards the attic. I shot up in bed and hauled the duvet across my front to protect myself from the intruder. It seemed as if Charles’s exit had triggered another supernatural force to awaken. Was Dickens’s fantasy Christmas story coming to life with a string of apparitions to torment me or more likely; was I about to be the victim of the common burglar?

  This was my fault. I’d left the back door unlocked too often. With Charles’s departure, I was conscious of my vulnerability more than ever and the lack of security measures I’d put in place to protect my property. I was wrong; coping without him was going to be a challenge beyond heartbreak and isolation. I clenched my fists, ready to confront the intruder.

  The door creaked, slightly ajar at first, then flung wider and from out the shadows of the corridor emerged a mop of unruly dark hair that failed to shadow bright eyes. I stared, disbelieving, as a vermillion blush flashed across his usually pale cheeks.

  ‘Charles!’ I screeched, leaping up onto my knees, allowing the bedding to fall away from my naked body.

  He smiled – a broad toothy grin, quite unlike his usual suppressed one. He had a grip on the waistband of his baggy jeans; the top button was undone. ‘I’ve just peed.’

  ‘What?’ My mouth remained open, stunned by his presence in the doorway.

  ‘I woke up needing a pee. I haven’t had that in a long, long time. And,’ he came farther into the room, ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Charles.’ I reached across the bed, desperate to touch him, to convince myself this man wasn’t a dream or another apparition. ‘Your skin.’ I gestured at his bare chest, ‘it’s perfect.’

  He glanced down and gasped. ‘I’d not noticed.’ He ran his hand up and down his smooth arms. ‘My scars have gone.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ I wrapped the duvet around my cooling shoulders. ‘You’re not dead.’

  ‘No,’ He raised his hands above his head and stretched. ‘I ache.’ He cricked his neck from side to side. ‘I’m cold, too.’ He picked up his jumper and pulled it over his head.

  I threw myself at him, ignoring my nudity and he captured me in his embrace. Tears cascaded down my face and I drummed my palms on his chest. ‘You’re alive, really alive.’

  He laughed. ‘Yes. And, ow, that hurts.’

  I grabbed his wrist and hunted for his pulse. It raced, just like mine. ‘What’s happened? The curse?’

  He shrugged. ‘Gone, I assume – I feel quite mortal, vulnerable and hungry,’ he repeated. ‘Can we go and have some breakfast? I can’t wait to eat.’

  For a man who’d been born in the 1840s he had regressed into a boyish state. I hurriedly dressed and followed him down into the kitchen. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Anything. Sausages? Do you have any? Oh, and coffee, please.’ He smacked his lips together, then feverishly licking them with his tongue.

  While I hastened to feed the ravenous Charles, he speculated. ‘I think I have to be careful.’

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘That now, if I injure myself, like fall off the roof, I’d probably die, as in totally not come back from the dead.’

  The Rayburn blasted out heat. I stabbed several sausages and tossed them into a frying pan. ‘Quite possibly,’ I concurred. ‘I shouldn’t put your theory to the test.’

  ‘No, agreed.’ He picked up a fork and waved it at me. ‘I shall definitely need new clothes.’

  I laughed. ‘My goodness, you’ll be stunned by men’s fashion these days.’ I poured hot water into the cafeteria. ‘Seriously, why are you here? When I woke and found myself alone, I feared the worse.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my love.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘That was bad timing. I woke and you were so sweetly curled up, I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought for a minute I was not really there, in spirit, yes, but not in body, then my bladder told me otherwise. It was quite a shock. I’d forgotten how inconvenient the sensation can be. I had to go.’

  I poked at sausages. The unfathomable mystery of Charles continued. ‘You were convinced you wouldn’t be here if we made love.’

  He leaned against the worktop, and with an eager expression, watched me fry his breakfast. ‘A curse should have a gruesome outcome. Isn’t that the case?’ He scratched his chin, which was already covered by a dark forest of morning bristles. ‘I don’t know. I can hear those words, over and over, warning me not to fall in love or be loved.’

  ‘Maybe the Gypsy wanted you to live in fear of love, never daring to be with another,’ I speculated – had that been the man’s revenge? A cruel twist on words? The monstrous man, Christopher, had died, but Charles had been born out of the ashes, rather like the phoenix. A second chance?

  ‘Then why release me and give me this happy conclusion?’

  I removed the pan from the heat and walked over to him. ‘Because you regretted what you did. You turned from a selfish young man into a considerate servant to everyone who lived here, including me. A selfless existence without material gain or comfort. I would like to think that deep down, the man whom forced you into this supernatural state wanted to forgive you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he murmured. ‘But still, it doesn’t make sense. The anger he threw at me, that doesn’t speak of a man who seeks to forgive me. I don’t know. I grieved for Christopher, the man I once was. I hated him for a long while I think, but now he is truly at peace. We should go to the graveyard together, don’t you think, and lay those flowers?’

  I fetched two plates. ‘Yes. After breakfast or maybe lunch.’

  ‘Why later?’

  ‘Because I want proof this isn’t a dream. That we can repeat last night with our eyes open.’

  ‘Oh, do you now.’ He grinned. ‘Sausages and coffee first. Then, after I’ve convinced you I’m real, I want to hold your hand, walk out into the lane and down to the village.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  We walked towards the gate, hand in hand, with me constantly squeezing his knuckles, checking that he was there. We both needed reassurances, but Charles especially. Having read his journal, I appreciated the terrible sense of dread he must feel in the moment before he would vanish – ceased to be, as he descri
bed it.

  Two pairs of feet scrunched down the gravel driveway and I prayed the same footfalls would be heard on the other side of the gate. Why would they not, I’d told him earlier in the morning, as we lounged in bed. He’d drunk his coffee with relish, consumed a huge quantity of sausages and thankfully, it seemed his dormant digestive system functioned normally.

  ‘No stopping,’ I whispered, as the wrought iron gates drew closer. For the second time we crossed the invisible line that separated Heachley estate from the rest of the world, a world Charles had not experienced in over a century.

  I held my breath and next to me Charles inhaled deeply as if we were about to dive into a pool of deep water. I grasped his hand as tight as I could, clinging onto him – please, don’t leave me. Following one final stutter of uncertain feet, we passed the gateposts. I turned to look at him and smiled. His eyelashes were wet and he blinked, once, then again as he fought to contain his emotions. For a man accustomed to having his feelings locked inside, he seemed on the verge of letting them fly. Instead, he released my hand and continued to walk away from the gates.

  Then I noticed where he’d gone. I dashed forward and tugged on his arm. ‘Stop. You’re in the middle of the road.’ The last thing I wanted to witness was Charles mowed down by a passing vehicle. I fizzed with both excitement and alarm, because the need to supervise him meant he was really alive.

  He halted, glancing up and down the road, then he stamped his feet on the road. ‘I’ve often wondered what this would feel like.’

  I replaced my anxious expression with a solemn one. ‘Being out here; I can understand.’

  ‘No,’ he smirked, ‘Tarmac. Never stood on it before now. Cobbled streets, yes, but not asphalt.’

  I thumped his arm and he laughed – a joyful sound – deep throated and hearty.

  ‘Come on,’ I urged, ‘This way.’ I maintained a firm hold of his swinging hand as we walked down the lane towards the village and the pub, where I’d promised him one of Glenda’s steak and kidney pies.

  ‘What’s that?’ He pointed to the distant electricity pylon.

  So began a continuous stream of questions and answers. Our short stroll was more like taking a curious toddler out for a walk not a grown adult. Everything intrigued him: the white markings on the road at the junctions, the drain covers. Then as we approached the outskirts of Little Knottisham, he saw his first modern house. For twenty minutes, I experienced a vicarious innocence. I’d not seen houses as architecturally different or unusual, but Charles did. Garages attached to buildings – rather than separate stables – were a reminder he’d grown up with the horse and cart.

  Wheelie bins left on the roadside for refuse collection were turned into a plaything. I dragged one along the pavement and tried to explain how it tipped up into the rear of a dustbin lorry. He’d seen the bins at the back of the Heachley Hall, but not witnessed the trucks at work on the lane.

  A car drove past and he jumped away from the kerbside even though the vehicle dawdled. He’d a familiarity with their design from picture books, but had never sat in one. He’d soon be my passenger.

  We arrived at the Rose and Crown. The main entrance was wedged open and escaping from inside was the rhythmic beat of the latest chart topper. I halted in front of the door.

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’ I asked.

  Crossing the threshold would be a giant leap for Charles. After years of residing in the neighbourhood, he remained an elusive figure. If they started to interrogate him, he might expose his ignorance of the modern world. I doubted he would know how to use a hand dryer in the gents. Panic consumed me – there was so much to teach him, and we’d not tackled anything in preparation for this outing.

  He squeezed my hand tighter. ‘I’m not afraid to be out here.’ Leaning forward, he brushed a kiss against my cheek. ‘I have to start somewhere.’ He understood his circumstances far better than me. I had to trust him, support him and without dampening his enthusiasm.

  We entered the bar and immediately the noise and smells accosted us. Charles sniffed. I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Beer.’ He licked his lips.

  There was no sign of Glenda or Bert. The cheerful barmaid, whose scarlet blushed cheeks glowed under the bar lights, drew a pint of draught bitter for Charles. The pub basked in an unusual level of heat, adding to my discomfort as I baked in perspiration.

  ‘Two steak and kidney pies with mash, is it, love?’ She noted down our order. ‘Which table?’

  I pointed to my regular corner spot.

  I’d feared the hustle and bustle of a busy bar, the swarms of people elbowing each other might intimidate Charles, who was a solitary man and accustomed to the open space of tranquil woods. However, he sat on the edge of his chair, eyes blazing and actively eavesdropping: he cocked his head to one side and soaked up the atmosphere and hubbub of voices and music. The radio had given him a familiarity with contemporary styles, but he preferred jazz and easy listening: the music of Felicity’s era.

  ‘Tell me,’ I asked. ‘Is it too much?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. How could it be?’

  Over lunch, he developed a fascination with the flat screen television and the sports channel. Glancing in my direction, he spied my smile. ‘What?’

  ‘Blasted football. What is it with men and sports?’ It was a half-hearted gripe. I didn’t mind. He deserved a hobby, something other than carpentry and gardening.

  He gestured at the television. ‘I’ve had to picture this in my head. It’s not easy to follow on the radio.’

  This comment led to a surprise discussion about sports. Over the years, he’d listened to Wimbledon, rugby and cricket, the latter his favourite and he was knowledgeable, able to list the best teams, the trophies they’d won, not just recently, but over decades. His memory for details was terrifying – all that information locked away and unspoken for fear of revealing his true age. The thought of being the one to discover Charles was a thrilling adventure that awaited me.

  ‘Miriam,’ Glenda boomed.

  I rolled my eyes upwards for a second. Glenda swept across the floor to stand by our table. She eyed Charles, taking in his rough clothes and tousled hair. He’d made little attempt at tidying himself up when he’d dressed.

  ‘This is Charles,’ I declared.

  ‘Your handyman.’ She wiped her hand on her apron and Charles shook it.

  ‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ he said politely. I also had to work on Charles’s quaint displays of etiquette – antiquated and tasteful, they stuck out as much as the string around his boots. Women might find it charming, but men would ridicule him. Perhaps introducing him to Mike allowing a friendship to flourish would help educate him.

  She chuckled. ‘Dark horse you have here, Miriam. I can tell these things.’ She gave me a wink. ‘Handy man, my arse, you’ve found him handy, I bet.’

  Charles’s usual whitewashed face turned crimson.

  ‘Glenda,’ I shrilled softly, leaning toward her. ‘You’re embarrassing him.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she said and picked up the finished dinner plates. ‘You two take care.’ She bustled back to the bar, chortling loudly.

  ‘Dear God,’ Charles exclaimed, when she disappeared out of earshot, ‘Did she just allude to—’

  ‘You will have to learn to hide your embarrassment, those cheeks of yours are like alarm bells.’ I giggled and pointed.

  He touched his cheek and grinned. ‘Can’t be helped.’

  ‘Come on.’ I rose. ‘Let’s go find her grave.’

  We walked past the fringe of the village green. I quickly plucked a few stray daffodils, and as we made our way to the church, I fashioned a rudimentary posy using sprigs of evergreen laurels from a nearby hedge.

  Bright sunshine eked out the gaps between the trees and buildings and the wind nudged the branches with a gentle breeze. However, the odd gust still possessed a cold fringe, a reminder that winter wasn’t entirely gone. I’d worn a jacket
, but Charles only had his jumper; he’d never bothered with a coat, he’d told me before we left the house.

  ‘Cold?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  He lied – his hand was icy. The grass in the graveyard had been cut; spring smelt fresh and real in the abandoned cuttings.

  ‘This way.’ I directed him to the headstone in the shape of a cross.

  Charles knelt on one knee by Nuri’s grave. He traced her name with his forefinger. ‘Poor, Bea,’ he murmured.

  ‘A daughter.’ I pointed at the inscription.

  ‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat and placed the bouquet of daffodils by her gravestone. ‘Rest in peace, sweet girls.’

  I bit back a soft cry and wiped the tears from my eyes. This wasn’t my grief. I hadn’t known this woman, yet Charles’s reaction to seeing her grave was touching. He stroked the granite, muttering: a prayer, perhaps, an apology? I couldn’t hear. It wasn’t my business to know.

  He scrambled to his feet, perused the churchyard and scratched his chin. ‘So, let’s see if I’m here.’

  I showed him my family plot, the familiar names, and he smiled, patting the grave of Rupert and Olivia. We split up and walked a circuit around the church; he one way, me in the opposite direction. We met on the other side of the church and shared a frown of failure.

  ‘Try again,’ I suggested.

  We reconverged a few minutes later by the church porch, both our searches fruitless.

  ‘Perhaps what little remains of me wasn’t buried in consecrated ground. I committed suicide and dishonoured the family name.’

  Nothing in the newspaper articles referred to suicide. ‘That’s unfair.’ I crossed my arms. ‘They gave Beatrice a plot.’ I gestured to the crooked cross.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The deep voice came from a slightly stooped man in a dark suit wearing a white dog collar: the vicar. He walked up the path to join us.

  Stood between graves with my foot resting on a low plinth, I cringed. Our intrusive search seemed to smack of sacrilege. Were we in trouble?

  ‘Er, we’re researching my friend’s family history,’ I said nervously.