Wildfell

by Sam Baker

  Wildfell House looked exactly as it had last time he was there. Silver Peugeot at 45 degrees to the front, tyre marks a tidal wave in gravel behind it. Curtains pulled part way across the front windows, like half-closed eyes. Not so much deserted as not yet awake. No light that he could see. No noise but crows wheeling above the trees in the field behind him, and the growl of an occasional lorry on the road behind.

  Almost eleven. Not too early to knock. Not on a weekday.

  There was a bell to the right of the heavy black door. Round, metal, ugly. Old-fashioned wasn’t in it. It looked almost as old as the house, which was obviously not possible, since the Elizabethans didn’t have doorbells, so far as he knew. Although it was certainly stiff enough.

  Leaning on the bell, Gil thought he felt it shift slightly. He couldn’t be sure if it budged, but in case it did he leaned on it again and listened. Was that an answering ring he heard inside? It was equally possible it was his imagination supplying the noise. He gave it ten seconds, made himself add another ten and leaned again. Still nothing. No movement from inside. No lights going on. He stepped back and stared up at the first-floor windows.

  Most likely the bell wasn’t working.

  He rapped three times with the knocker, the tarnished face of a lion dead-eyeing him as he did so. Could she have gone for a walk? Gil tried to imagine her limping towards the Scar. Perhaps she healed quickly. Perhaps you had to be his age before injuries took their toll. If you could get over a hangover twice as fast when young why not everything else? He gave one final knock, bent down to put the provisions on the doorstep, cursing his wasted walk and wasted opportunity. Not to mention wasted money. As he unconcertinaed himself, he heard locks rattle on the far side of her door.

  ‘Mr Markham?’ Helen Graham opened the door just wide enough to stand in the gap. She was wearing what probably passed for pyjamas. Grubby grey jogging bottoms, an even grubbier T-shirt with a slogan too faded to read, beneath a slightly cleaner towelling robe once belonging to a Premier Inn.

  ‘Mademoiselle Graham, Helen, I’m sorry. Did I wake you?’

  A wry expression crossed her face. Not a smile but not exactly unfriendly. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, but she didn’t open the door further. ‘Went to London for a couple of days. Tired myself out. Also I don’t sleep well. So when I do I just go with it.’

  She certainly did look tired.

  ‘I wondered how you were. I thought …’ Gil picked up his offerings, feeling naïve, like a boy bringing an apple for the teacher and fearing it might be rejected. Gil Markham, sixty-odd going on six. Her gaze flicked from his eyes to the things in his arms and back again. Something flashed across her face. Irritation, maybe. Sadness, confusion. He’d overstepped the mark. Gil knew that already.

  Then she did smile and her pallor lifted.

  ‘Baked beans?’ her mouth twisted.

  ‘Isn’t that what sick people eat, beans on toast?’

  ‘Some sick people maybe. I’m not sick. I’m barely injured.’ She took the tin and turned it round in her hand as if examining an exotic object. ‘Can’t remember the last time I ate baked beans.’

  ‘Don’t children live on baked beans?’

  She frowned. ‘Maybe. Not my specialist subject, I’m afraid … Fish fingers and beans sounds familiar though. I’m pretty sure I ate that as a child.’ She looked at him. ‘When I was in England, I mean. Visiting. I’m more of a black coffee and whatever’s cold in the fridge person now.’

  On the road behind him, a truck rattled. ‘Shall I carry them in for you?’

  ‘No need. I’ll take them …’

  Then she stopped, seemed to relent. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be unfriendly. Yes, of course, come in. You must be cold standing there. I’ll make tea.’

  The entrance hall was dark and panelled in heavy wood with enough split panels and woodworm to make Gil worry for the rest of the house. A huge painting of a stag at bay over an equally cracked marble fireplace was flaking to reveal canvas beneath. It could hardly be a Landseer original. Someone would have removed it. As Gil crossed in front of the wide stairs a draught tickled his hair, like a window opening above. For the first time he realised he might have interrupted something. Helen might have been with someone. Why wouldn’t she? An attractive and mysterious woman like her. He glanced up, but the stairs doubled back on themselves and there was nothing he could see.

  ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘It’s so big, even with three-quarters of the rooms locked up, I can’t seem to get the place warm.’

  The kitchen was surprisingly cosy by comparison.

  ‘Nice,’ he said, unthinking.

  She turned, gave him that look again. In a different life, to someone she knew, she might have said ‘Who are you trying to kid?’ Instead, she just said, ‘Really?’ her voice rising in disbelief at the end.

  ‘Well, yes, you know, relatively.’

  Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘I suppose I do spend most of my time in here. I guess that’s why it feels more lived in.’

  ‘Where shall I …?’ he nodded at his pile.

  ‘Oh, anywhere is fine.’ She waved her hand in the general vicinity of a chair and Gil took it as an invitation to dump his offerings on the table and sit down. There was a laptop open, but dozing, on the scrubbed table, green light flashing as it almost slept. A mug with the dregs of coffee grounds. A copy of the Evening Standard. A Metro. As she sliced open the cellophane on the Earl Grey, Gil reached out and touched the mug. Not hot but definitely not cold. Not asleep then. Not even slightly.

  Then he leaned over and picked up the Standard.

  ‘Haven’t seen one of these in a while,’ he said, waving it at her.

  She glanced over at him, her face suddenly tense. ‘Oh, you don’t want to bother with that,’ she said. ‘It’s days old. Try the Metro, it’s a bit more recent. Not much though.’ In one smooth movement she slid the Standard from his hand and replaced it with the Metro, putting the former out of reach on a worktop.

  For a couple of minutes, Gil pretended to flick through it. Both free, both full of nothing. He was buggered if he could see the difference.

  ‘How’s the ankle?’ he asked as she put a mug in front of him and sat down at the end of the table, in front of the laptop. Her seat, he could tell. The place she always sat. The place he suspected she’d been sitting when he rang the bell.

  She shrugged.

  They sipped tea in silence. Not exactly companionable, but near enough. The kitchen had the feeling of a room that had known love once. Not recently. Not for a long time. Certainly not this century, maybe not even last … How did she stand it out here on her own? If she was on her own. Gil listened for sounds of someone else in residence. Nothing but scraping from outside the back door. The groan of the occasional pipe.

  Helen didn’t seem to notice the noise. She was staring into space, her hands hugging the mug like a hot-water bottle. She bit her nails, Gil noticed. Her cuticles were pink and raw. No rings on her wedding finger. No dent or pale skin to tell him one had been recently removed. Hands that looked older than she did. Faded freckles peppered skin so papery that blue veins showed through. They brought to mind the rumours of her being a famous French actress come here to die. He wasn’t convinced, but something had brought her here.

  You didn’t choose to live alone in a ruin like this for no reason.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said suddenly into his silence. Gil jumped. If his mug had been full he’d have spilt it. ‘Bringing shopping was kind of you. Not necessary. But kind. I’ve forgotten how to recognise kindness recently. To be honest, I was afraid you’d tell that woman in the shop about my fall and she’d turn up …’ Helen caught herself. ‘Not that I mean to be rude. Is she a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly …’ he smiled. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  As the words left his mouth Gil felt the air ice around him. Her face, which had momentarily softened, shu
t down again.

  ‘What I mean is, I won’t say anything to Mrs Millward.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, but all familiarity was gone. ‘I came here to get away … You know? For the peace and quiet. To work and think and … I didn’t expect the gossip. That I would be required to socialise.’

  Gil winced. ‘Small towns are famous for gossip. Villages even worse.’

  ‘So I’ve discovered.’

  ‘Mind you, who needs a small town when you’ve got the Internet?’ Gil joked, inclining his head towards her laptop, USB flashing in its side.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, following his gaze. ‘I don’t really look at the Internet unless I can’t avoid it. I was just downloading something.’

  ‘Not even for news?’

  Helen smiled grimly. ‘Especially not for news.’

  Gil shrugged. He didn’t get it. Why would you have two papers in the house and a USB dongle knocking around if you weren’t interested in news?

  ‘How long are you planning on staying?’ Gil ventured. He had a feeling he was on borrowed time. Better to ask her now. If she threw him out, he might not get another chance. ‘Reports differ.’

  Her mouth quirked. ‘Not sure,’ she said eventually. ‘A few months maybe. I’d hoped for longer, but to be honest, I’m not sure I fancy being here in January and February.’

  ‘Can I ask what you’re doing?’ he didn’t expect her to answer, but in for a penny.

  ‘Here? I’m working on something. A project …’

  ‘A book?’

  She bit at an already sore hangnail. ‘Possibly. I haven’t decided what form it should take yet.’

  ‘You’re a writer then?’

  Helen shook her head. Laughed. ‘Can’t write to save my life.’ Squeaking her chair back, she pushed herself to her feet, picked up her mug and reached for his. As she did, her sleeve brushed the trackpad and her Mac lurched into life. Its screen saver flashed up with a password box obscuring the middle. A picture of a ragged boy, maybe five or six, sitting on a filthy doorstep, surrounded with rubble. Bare legs skinny and bruised, ending in lace-less plimsolls. He was playing with a plastic figure.

  Slamming the lid with something just short of force, Helen smiled a quick tight smile and turned to the sink. Gil’s audience was over. But there was something about that picture, something haunting. It wasn’t the poverty that made Gil’s guts churn. It was the certainty he’d seen the boy before.

  ‘That picture …?’

  Helen Graham stared at him, eyes unreadable.

  ‘The boy? Is he someone you know?’

  She didn’t answer, just turned and walked out of the kitchen and through the hall to the front door in silence, leaving Gil no option but to follow. She held the door so Gil could pass through it.

  ‘Was he?’ he repeated, feeling the door start to close on him before he was entirely clear.

  He didn’t expect her to answer. Then, just as the door was about to close, she stopped. ‘Knew,’ she said, when Gil looked back in surprise. ‘He died.’

  16

  She locked the door behind him, more from instinct than because she expected him to return, then leaned against it and closed her eyes, taking comfort from the solid wood against her back, the sound of gravel crunching beneath his brogues. As his footsteps faded, her breathing slowed. It took an age for the sound to vanish altogether. His pace was heavy, solemn, and Helen was surprised to feel a pang of regret through the panic that had surged when he’d homed in on the boy. She was starting to like him. He reminded her of an old boss, one she’d had a lot of time for, and, though she’d never have admitted it, she’d been glad of the company. Until he’d started to pry.

  What was it with this village?

  Perhaps Gil was right. Perhaps it wasn’t this village, perhaps it was all villages.

  Not for the first time, Helen wondered if she should have stayed in the city.

  A draught lifted the hairs on the back of her neck, and she shivered. Glanced around but she couldn’t see the source. It was chill out here in the entrance hall, all rattling windows and gaping floorboards. Chill everywhere in this damn house. Dark, too, despite the fact it was gone noon and outside, behind the ever-present clouds hanging low over the Dales, the sun was high in the sky. Wildfell seemed impervious to weather. Like a black hole, it sucked in the light; a permanent February. Helen shuddered and wrapped the stolen robe more tightly around her.

  Ever since she’d got back from London, the house had seemed darker, more forbidding. Not the comfortable sanctuary she’d conjured in her mind by the time she’d checked out of the Premier Inn, contraband robe complete with coffee stain in her rucksack. Unused rooms and corridors had grown shadowy. The mansion’s quirks and quinks, always there, had grown noisier, more vocal, as if they’d regained their voice during her absence. There was no reason they should be silenced. It wasn’t as if they expected her to stay. It wasn’t as if she expected to. But still she couldn’t shake the sense that when she entered a room, someone else left.

  Well, she told herself, someone else probably did.

  While she was away, the cat appeared to have moved in. He didn’t think she’d noticed, but she had. A flicker at the corner of her eye, a tail vanishing round a door, a smudge of black on a window ledge, the occasional carefully positioned mouse corpse.

  If that was what passed for company here, it would have to do.

  Driven back into the kitchen by the cold, Helen moved instinctively towards the kettle, then caught herself. If she had to drink one more bloody cup of tea she’d scream. Instead, she lapped the room, checking the pantry and the doors to the outhouse, opening cupboard doors and closing them again. Outside, the trees were beginning to shed their leaves. In a few weeks, the copse that protected Wildfell from the Dales would be bare, leaving the unkempt grounds looking even more deserted. On the other side of the window, a crow squawked. Helen jumped in surprise, banging her hip on the corner of the table as the bird took flight less than a foot from her face.

  This was ridiculous. She had to get a grip.

  Company. Helen Lawrence looking for company? That was a laugh. The fact she didn’t need it, scorned it, even, was part of her psychological scaffolding. Something she knew about herself. She was good at being alone. Wasn’t that what Fran had said?

  Art, on the other hand, could do company. He was good in company. He could put company on and take it off like a mask. War reporters … Even former war reporters are not naturally gregarious. A tight group of comrades whose ability to fake it in larger groups got them through what they need to get through. As for her … she liked people, most people. But send her to a desert island for a week and she’d have said, fine, no problem. What she’d failed to notice before this, though, was that no matter how many out-of-the-way places she’d been, she’d always been surrounded by people: journalists, locals, villagers, officials, police, translators, soldiers …

  Self-sufficient, maybe. A loner, no. Show her a strange city where she didn’t speak the language, couldn’t even read the alphabet, and she’d find her way across it. But there was a skill to being entirely alone. She was discovering now that she didn’t have it.

  The journey back to Wildfell had been uneventful, but she hadn’t been able to shake the sense that she was being watched. At the station, on the train, on the bus to the airport. At the airport, though, the feeling had shifted a little and she’d put it down to paranoia. Even so, she’d taken a circuitous route from the bus stop to the long-stay car park just in case and kept her eye on the rear-view mirror on the long drive home over the moors.

  Relenting, Helen made another cup of tea and then perched in front of the laptop, exactly where she’d been sitting when Gil arrived. Photographs flickered across the screen. Faces blurring until she stopped, attention caught by a colour, a pose, a moment in time that triggered a recollection. Some of the pictures had been filed geographically or chronologically, the rest she’d bundled on to the cloud in random fol
ders before she left for her last assignment. The mess wasn’t a problem, she could find her way around it. Better messy than destroyed. She’d come close to discovering that the hard way.

  This morning, she’d been toying with a different sort of narrative. A way of putting them together that would tell a story that was theirs, not hers. Every so often an image caught her eye and she stopped, appraised it and added it to a collection. It was only when she’d built the first catalogue that she noticed it. So many children. When had she started focusing on children? It was the children standing in the ruins that made her fingers freeze. And women. Lots and lots of women. Some faces blank and hopeless, their homes destroyed, husbands dead. If the women were lucky, children clustered round their legs, hiding from the foreigner with the camera.

  If they weren’t …

  Helen shuddered, tried to concentrate on her fingers skimming the trackpad, creating new folders and dragging pictures into them until gradually their story began to emerge.

  The more life stories she could build, she figured, the less time she’d have to think about Art’s.

  Art had been dead nearly three weeks now and yet, the more time passed, the more she felt his presence. As if the removal of his physical presence had bolstered his psychic one.

  Something clattered the other side of the door, and Helen froze. Sat stock-still, listened.

  Just the hum of the fridge, the distant call of crows.

  It was probably nothing, she told herself, turning on the old Roberts to obliterate the nothing, and returned her attention to the pictures.

  His was a constant presence – Art’s – and the boy’s too. They seemed weirdly inter-linked, always there, always out of sight. Although that sequence of pictures had nothing to do with Art, quite the opposite in fact.

  She had forgotten about the boy, more or less, until she thought she saw him out on the Dales. And she hadn’t seen him since, although she’d felt him right up until she went to London. It wasn’t just this house. The boy had been with her for years. As long as Art, now she thought about it. Not that she’d realised that, not at first. But the minute she uploaded the image and those button brown eyes looked up from his Power Ranger and fixed on hers, she knew it had been him all along.