House of Shadows

by Pamela Hartshorne

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘It’s just . . . do you smell anything funny in here?’

  She sniffs the air. ‘Coffee . . . cherry and almond scones . . . chocolate cake . . . What do you mean by “funny”?’

  ‘Unpleasant.’

  ‘I can’t smell anything nasty. I hope there isn’t a problem with the drains.’

  ‘It doesn’t smell like drains.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It smells like a grave.’

  ‘Oh, Kate.’ Angie’s face changes and she puts her cup down into its saucer. ‘Oh, Kate,’ she says sadly. ‘Please, not again.’

  I’m thrown by her reaction. ‘What do you mean?’

  She looks terribly worried. ‘This is what happened before. They found a body when they dug the foundations here, and you were obsessed by it. You kept saying that it was someone called Isabel, or sometimes you said that it was Lady Vavasour, and that she should be buried in the churchyard. And sometimes you said that it was you.’ She bites her lip. ‘It was awful. You were in such a state. You kept wandering off to the moors. You’d just abandon Felix and leave him all on his own, or drift around the house as if you didn’t even see anybody else. We were all at our wits’ end.’

  I swallow. ‘I didn’t realize it was that bad.’

  ‘It was worst for Felix. It must have been terrifying for him, and he was so confused, poor little mite. Quite honestly, I’m not surprised he refused to recognize you when you first came home. You hadn’t been rational for so long,’ she says, and lets out a long sigh.

  ‘The only silver lining to your fall was that you lost your memory,’ she tells me. ‘I know it’s been hard for you, but we’ve all been praying that you don’t remember everything. We were hoping that was the end of it, but if you start again about graves and ghosts and whatnot, I don’t know what we’ll do.’

  I am twisting my cup between my hands, horrified to realize that I have been through all this before.

  ‘It was a horrible, horrible time,’ Angie says. ‘Especially for Felix.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  She hesitates. ‘I know it wasn’t your fault. You were having some kind of breakdown, I think, but please don’t let it happen again, Kate. If you can feel yourself losing control, get help, but don’t put Felix through that again. It’s just not fair on him.’

  I set my teeth. She has made her point. She cares far more for Felix than I do. I am a selfish mother who neglected her own child, while Angie was there to look after him. I don’t like it, but who am I to say that she isn’t right? She was there for Felix. She has kept him safe and happy. I should be grateful to her, not resentful. I make myself relax my jaw.

  ‘I won’t,’ I say.

  ‘So you’re not getting any weird visions or hallucinating or anything like that?’

  I can’t tell her about Isabel now. Angie might be my friend, but she’s not going to let Felix suffer again. She’ll put him first.

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just the smell in here.’

  ‘Perhaps the drugs you had affected your sense of smell?’

  I cradle my coffee cup in my hands. ‘I’m sure that’s all it is.’

  I glance around. Everyone else seems to be enjoying the bright room, laughing and chattering, oblivious to the stench of death and the dreadful drag of grief. Why can’t anyone else feel it? I shiver in spite of the warmth of the cafe, and clutch my coffee cup tighter. I remind myself that I am alive, not buried in earth. I am as warm as I was when I lay with Edmund in the great bed, our limbs languidly tangled.

  I remember pressing my lips to the warm, firm flesh of his shoulder. ‘I want to do something for Judith,’ I said. I don’t remember when it was. It must have been some time after I lost the babe, because I was relaxed and contented. I stretched, sated, like a cat, against my husband.

  ‘Give her a gown,’ Edmund said sleepily.

  ‘I have given her gowns,’ I said. ‘She deserves a greater gift than that.’

  Wariness crept into Edmund’s voice. ‘What are you thinking of?’

  ‘A husband.’ I snuggled closer, delighted with my idea. ‘I think we should find her a husband to comfort and delight her as you do me. Do you not have a neighbour in need of a wife? I do not want her to go too far.’

  Edmund was silent for a moment. He had an arm around my bare shoulder and was toying absently with my hair. ‘Judith does not come from a good family,’ he said at last.

  ‘She is related to me!’

  ‘By marriage only,’ he said. ‘She is a connection of your uncle’s wife, is she not?’

  ‘I always think of her as my cousin,’ I said a little sulkily. I did not like it when Edmund cast a damper on my good ideas. Sometimes he could be very careful.

  ‘Thinking something does not make it so,’ Edmund said. ‘Your situation was very different from Judith’s. You were an heiress. It was easy for you to snap me up.’ He laughed as I pushed at him with the flats of my hands, but then sobered. ‘It will not be so easy for Judith. Do not make promises you cannot keep.’

  ‘But she is fair,’ I protested. ‘And she would be such a good wife. Think what a good housekeeper she is.’

  ‘Men look for more than a fair face and an ability to dress meat,’ Edmund said. ‘I am sure Judith would be an excellent wife, but her birth counts against her, and I do not know anyone who would marry to disoblige his family and friends.’

  I pouted. ‘Well, perhaps we should let these gentlemen make up their own minds,’ I said. I was sure that Judith’s face and figure would be enough to tempt a man minded to wed. She could not look as high as a lord, but there must be members of the gentry who were not so proud. Of course, a first marriage must be carefully considered, but there had to be widowers who might marry to please themselves. ‘Can we not invite some neighbours to dine so that at least Judith is seen to be accepted by us?’

  ‘But who will keep my house if Judith weds?’ Edmund teased, and I rolled on top of him, laughing as he tickled me.

  ‘I will be a better housekeeper, I promise,’ I said. ‘I will miss Judith if she marries, but I just want her to be as happy as I am.’

  Edmund’s hand smoothed down my flank, and my skin warmed and tingled with pleasure at his touch. ‘Are you sure Judith is capable of such happiness?’ he asked thoughtfully, and I lifted my head in surprise.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She smiles, but she does not laugh as you do. She keeps her feelings locked away where no one can see them, while your every mood is writ large on your face.’

  ‘That’s just the way Judith is,’ I said. ‘She is quiet and sensible and modest. So has she always been.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder how well you really know her,’ said Edmund, almost reluctantly.

  I half smiled and shook my head, amazed that he could be so blind. ‘I know her as well as I know myself, Edmund, and she deserves to be happy. I am sure there would be men who would be glad to have her to wife.’

  And although Edmund was discouraging, I remained sure there would be someone for Judith. I said nothing at first, not wanting to disappoint her, but I made Edmund invite all his neighbours to a great feast. Of course, I made sure that they all knew that it was Judith who organized it all, and I was pleased when I saw how closely Sir Stephen Morley watched her. There was no mistaking the approval in his gaze, and I wanted to flounce over to Edmund and bid him watch how wrong he had been. Sir Stephen was a little stout, perhaps, but he had a kind smile and a nice little property that bordered Askerby. He was a widower with five children; it would be a good match for Judith.

  But when I hinted at the prospect to Judith the next day, I was dismayed by her reaction. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘If you want me to go, Isabel, why do you not just say so? I thought you wanted me to stay with you?’

  ‘I do,’ I said, alarmed. It was not like Judith to cry. ‘I just thought you might like to have a home of your own. I just want you to be happy, J
udith.’

  ‘I am happy.’ She dabbed at the edges of her eyes with her fingers. ‘Askerby is such a fine house. I cannot imagine wanting to live anywhere else.’

  ‘But . . . would you not like a husband of your own?’

  A fat widower with five children? Is that the best you think I can do?’ I had never heard Judith sound so sharp before. Her words sliced at me like blades of summer grass: when you feel nothing at first and the sting comes later, when you realize you are bleeding.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said stiffly. ‘I was only trying to help.’

  ‘I know what you were trying to do. You pity me and you think you will pick out a husband and toss him to me like one of your old gowns!’

  ‘Judith, no!’

  ‘I do not need any more of your charity, Isabel. It is enough that I owe you a roof over my head and food to eat.’ And with that she slammed out of the chamber, Judith, who never slammed a door in her life, leaving me gaping after her.

  ‘What should I do?’ I asked Edmund that night.

  ‘Leave well alone,’ he said. ‘Sometimes we don’t want to be offered a chance. So it is with Judith, I think. As long as she is your poor relation, she can feel bitter in comfort. But give her the choice to wed and run a house of her own, and she cannot be resentful any more. It is easier to hate than to change.’

  ‘Judith doesn’t hate me!’ I cried, distressed.

  ‘Not you,’ he amended, ‘but her situation, yes, of course she hates that. What is there to love about being poor and dependent on another?’

  I turned Edmund’s words over in my mind. I hated the idea of Judith feeling bitter. She was always so sweet-tempered, so willing. And I realized I had been selfish to enjoy her company without thinking about what it might feel like for her. The next day I told her that I was sorry, although I did not say why.

  ‘If Sir Stephen speaks to Edmund about you, Edmund will tell him that you are not minded to marry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Judith said. She bit her lip. ‘I am sorry if I seemed ungrateful. It is just that I . . . I am so happy here. I do not want to leave.’

  There, I remember thinking, Edmund was wrong. Of course Judith knows how to be happy.

  ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘you will need me now you are with child again.’

  My vision clears, and I realize that Angie is still studying me with an anxious expression. ‘Maybe you’re pushing yourself too hard, Kate.’

  As steadily as I can, I put down my cup and readjust to the present. ‘I’m supposed to be walking a little further every day,’ I tell her. ‘My physio makes me set goals. Now I’ve done the Visitor Centre, I’m aiming for the Lodge, then the church, then the village.’

  ‘Well, take it easy,’ she says. At least if you get to the Lodge you can sit down with Babcia. Just be prepared for her to drift off in the middle of a conversation. She’s getting very muddled now, poor thing.’

  She’s not the only one, I think, chewing my cheek.

  Angie notices, of course. She reaches forward and lays her hand over mine. ‘I’m your friend, Kate. You’d tell me if anything else was worrying you, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, but my eyes slide away from hers, out to the moors where I used to ride through the heather with Edmund. ‘Of course I would.’

  It is another week before I can walk as far as the Lodge, and I am looking forward to sitting down when I get there. Angie’s grandmother, Dosia, is sprightly enough to open the door, and she smiles at the sight of me, although the dark filmy eyes are vague.

  ‘I’m Kate,’ I say. When I take her hand, it feels very fragile, tiny bird-like bones slipped into a bag of papery skin. ‘Michael’s wife.’

  ‘Ah, Michael. Such a dear boy.’ Her Polish accent is still unmistakable after more than seventy years. ‘How is he?’

  I hesitate. Why distress her unnecessarily? Perhaps if I remembered more of Michael myself, it would be harder, but as it is, it seems kinder simply to tell her that he is fine. ‘He’s sorry that he can’t be here.’

  Dosia leads me into the kitchen. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear,’ she says when she has filled the kettle with a trembling hand. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Kate. It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember me, Mrs Kaczka, really it doesn’t.’

  ‘Mrs Kaczka?’ Her mouth turns down. ‘That is very formal, I think. Please, call me Dosia. I am so old now, I am afraid I forget names.’

  ‘I forget too,’ I tell her. ‘I had an accident. I don’t remember anything about my life before.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Dosia lets out a little sigh, and her eyes drift over my shoulder. ‘Sometimes not remembering is a blessing, my dear. When you get to my age, there are many things you wish you could forget.’

  She refuses my help in making the tea but she lets me carry the tray through to the sitting room. Like so many places at Askerby, this room is trapped in a different time, in this case the fifties. There is a maroon plastic suite with crocheted antimacassars. The gas fire is surrounded by shiny beige tiles, and the mantelpiece is crowded with knick-knacks and photographs in faded leather frames. It is dark in the shade of the woods, and even in the middle of a summer day Dosia has to switch on a lamp.

  When she smiles, Dosia has a dimple exactly like Angie’s, and old as she is, there is a warmth to her that makes me relax. I pour the tea and Dosia presses biscuits on me, lifting the plate with a shaky hand. I take two quickly so that she can put it down.

  She tells me the story of how she came to Askerby. A bride at eighteen, she and her new husband Adam Kaczka escaped from Poland in 1938, soon after they were married. ‘I was brought up on a country estate,’ she says, a faraway expression in her faded dark eyes. ‘Imagine what a shock London was to me, but we were grateful to be alive then. We all were.’

  War seems very far from this quiet room under the moors where the clock ticks steadily. ‘How did you get from London to Askerby?’ I prompt her when she stops.

  ‘Oh, that is another story! Adam was a pilot. He joined the RAF and flew Spitfires with Ralph.’

  ‘Ralph Vavasour?’

  Dosia nods, a reminiscent smile curving the corners of her mouth, and for a moment I glimpse the girl she must have been. ‘Ralph and Adam, they were like twins. Both so handsome, both so brave.’ She sighs and sets her cup shakily back in its saucer on the table beside her chair. ‘They loved the war, you know. Some men are made for danger, and Adam and Ralph, ah, it was everything to them! The thrill of it, flying those planes, facing death every time they took off, the camaraderie . . . I don’t think Adam, at least, ever wanted it to end,’ she says wryly.

  ‘It can’t have been much fun for you, waiting for him to come home every night.’

  ‘For me, no,’ Dosia says. ‘But for Adam and Ralph, they were living every day like it was their last. They were just boys,’ she says sadly. After the war, it was hard for them. Nothing could live up to the excitement of flying into battle. Some people aren’t made for a quiet, ordinary life.’

  Chapter Twenty

  I nibble at a biscuit and think of my parents, who apparently choose to live in desperate conditions in countries ravaged by war or famine or grinding poverty, who send their own child away rather than leave themselves. Perhaps they, too, fear the ordinary.

  ‘But what about you?’ I ask Dosia. ‘What did you want?’

  ‘In those days we didn’t think about what we wanted. We thought about what we had to do to survive,’ she says with gentle reproof. ‘I had to leave my home, my family, my friends . . . no, quiet and ordinary had no fears for me.’ The corners of her mouth lift in a little smile as she remembers.

  ‘Were you in London during the Blitz?’

  ‘For the first few weeks, but Ralph worried about me. He told Adam I could come to Askerby and I would be safe. He got leave and drove me up here. The Hall was requisitioned as a military hospital by then, but there was no one in the Lodge, he said.’

  Her voice warms wh
en she talks of Ralph. It was Ralph who worried about her, Ralph who made sure she was safe. I wonder what she really felt for him.

  ‘And he left you here all on your own? Weren’t you lonely?’

  Dosia looks around the room as if remembering when she first saw it. ‘I was happy to be here. There were no bombs falling on Askerby. I joined the Land Army. I did what I could. I was grateful.’

  I am trying to imagine what it was like for her, a young woman far from home, left to manage on her own in this remote part of Yorkshire.

  Adam must have missed you,’ I say, and she gives a crack of laughter.

  ‘I don’t think so. I think it suited Adam fine for me to be up here. I just cramped his style. I knew what they were doing – drinking and smoking and picking up girls. It was what they did when they weren’t flying.’ She shrugs tolerantly.

  ‘Didn’t you mind?’

  ‘It was different then,’ is all she says.

  She lapses into silence, her mouth working, and I wonder if I have overtired her. I sit quietly for a while, but something about her story is pricking at me, a fingernail flicking at the edge of my mind. Have I heard it before? There is something, a memory trembling on the cusp.

  And after the war?’ I ask.

  Ah, after the war, everything was different.’ Dosia lifts her hands and lets them fall back into her lap. Adam and I had to learn to be married again. It was hard. Ralph got married, and his wife, well, she wanted him to spend time with her, not with his old friends.’ Her voice has thinned. ‘She didn’t want us at the Lodge. Adam was too close, she thought. A bad influence on Ralph.’

  That was Margaret, I think, but I don’t want to interrupt her, not when the memory, whatever it is, seems so close.

  ‘We had to leave Askerby and look for work,’ Dosia goes on, lost in her own story. Adam didn’t know how to do anything but fly. He grew up like Ralph, thinking he would inherit his father’s estate. He never expected that he would have to work, and he didn’t like being told what to do. He never lasted at a job. He’d lose his temper, or spend the afternoon drinking. I did whatever I could to earn enough to pay our rent, but it wasn’t easy. Adam was a proud man and he turned bitter. Ralph tried to help us, but Adam hated having to be grateful.’