by Sarah Rayne
There was the sound of the stick clattering to the ground and of a piece of heavy furniture scraping across the dry floor and banging against something. A dreadful harsh cry came and then there was silence. Slowly and fearfully Ella took her hands away from her eyes. There was the room, shadowy and a bit dingy, with the furniture all the same – desk, cabinet, bookshelves, the gramophone on a small side table, its lid open. But the stick lay on the ground and the chair had skidded back against the fireplace wall. The dark figure was seated in it once again. But it’s all wrong, thought Ella, trying to see clearly through her tears. People don’t sit like that, with their head lolling to one side.
She looked across at her mother, who was standing at the centre of the room. Her fists were clenched, and her hair had come loose from the scarf; several strands hung over her face. Her face was shiny with sweat or tears, and although the snarling-animal expression was fading, it was still there.
But then her mother said, ‘Ella?’ almost as if she was not sure who Ella was.
‘Yes. I’m here.’ She whispered it in case the figure with its lolling head suddenly got out of the chair and came towards them. She did not dare take her eyes from it in case it moved.
‘Are you all right?’ said her mother.
‘Yes.’ Ella was not all right, but it was better to pretend.
‘You’d better wait outside. I won’t be a moment.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s— Yes,’ said her mother. ‘Oh, yes, quite all right. But wait outside.’ It was the familiar, slightly sharp voice, and Ella went out and sat down on the step of the French window. She could hear her mother moving around inside the room. There was a bumpy movement that sounded like a piece of furniture being shunted across the floor, and then into the silence came the music once again. Someone had started the gramophone record again. Had Mum done that? After a moment she came out, dusting her hands on the front of her skirt.
‘Everything’s quite all right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you saw that, Ella. But people sometimes say horrid things when they aren’t well. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Should we get a doctor?’
‘Oh, a doctor isn’t necessary. I’ve even put the music back on. I expect you can hear it.’
‘Yes.’
‘But,’ said Ella’s mother, in a different voice, ‘I think it would be better if no one knows we were here today. We don’t need to tell anyone about it. Not even your best friends, do you understand that?’
‘Yes.’
Ella thought she would not want to tell anyone about it anyway, and she specially would not want anyone to know how her mother had looked for those few minutes, all twisted and snarly. Still, she was glad they did not need to get a doctor, which would have meant going to a telephone box and perhaps being asked why they had been inside Cadence Manor. It sounded as if the man had just been knocked out. People did get knocked out, she had seen it on the television.
Neither of them spoke as they walked along the lane, but as they came to the stile on the edge of Mordwich Meadow, Ella’s mother suddenly said, ‘I believe I’ll just sit down here for a moment, Ella. I’m not ill or anything, but my legs are a bit shaky.’ She managed a half-smile. ‘What they call reaction. It’s quite nasty to be shouted at and threatened. So we’ll sit here for a minute or two while I collect myself. I’ll have a drop of my medicine, I think, then we’ll go straight home.’
The medicine was kept in her handbag in a small bottle; she reached for it now and unscrewed the top. Ella waited until Mum had drunk two capsful.
‘That’s better,’ she said, putting the bottle away. ‘We’ll go home in a minute.’
Ella wanted nothing more than to go home to ordinary things that would help her forget the way her mother had looked inside Cadence Manor, and that shadowy lolling figure sitting in the chair. There were lots of things to look forward to. The TV serial, and tomorrow she would be writing the programme for the school play, and on Friday was the nature study lesson, which she always enjoyed . . .
Nature study.
She said, ‘I left all the gentians in that room. I dropped them on the floor.’
‘For goodness’ sake, that doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, but I wrapped my hankie and scarf round them because of the roots. And it’s my school scarf with my name on. You said no one must know we were here.’
They looked at each other and Ella saw for the first time that her mother was not just shaky because of being shouted at or because of drinking her medicine, she was frightened. This was the worst thing yet, because Mum was never frightened, not of anything in the world. But here she was, sitting on the stile, which normally she would never have done, her legs all floppy as if they had no bones in them, reaching for another dose of her medicine with hands that shook so badly she spilled some of it down her front. Her face was streaked with tears and she was frightened to death because Ella’s scarf with her name was inside that room.
She mopped up the spilled medicine and tried to sit up straight, but she was still shaking, and when she spoke her voice was trembly. ‘Oh God, Ella. Your scarf. Oh God, that’s terrible.’
Ella could not see why it was so absolutely terrible as Mum seemed to think, but it seemed to matter to her very much, so she said, ‘I’ll go back in and get it.’
‘No! You mustn’t . . .’ Mum tried to stand up and half fell against the stile. Her eyes had a foggy look as if she was not seeing properly.
‘Yes, it’s all right.’ The thought of going back in the house filled Ella with horror, but she would rather do that than stay here with her mother being blurry and speaking as if she had a flannel in her mouth. ‘What I’ll do,’ she said, pleased that her voice sounded quite brave, ‘is I’ll peep round the edge of the French windows and if he’s there I won’t go in. I’ll come straight back and we’ll go home before he can see us. But if he’s not there I’ll reach inside and pick up the scarf and my hankie – they were just inside the door. If the gramophone’s still on no one will hear me anyway.’
‘But—’
‘It’s all right, really it is. I’ll run fast and I’ll be back before you know I’ve gone.’
She did not say that by the time she got back her mother might have got over the blurriness. Before she could protest any more, Ella turned and ran as hard as she could back along the lane with the wall of the manor on her right, and then in at the side gate and across the tangly gardens.
She paused at the edge of the overgrown lawn to get her breath back. The curtains were still closed over the windows. Did that mean the man was still in there? She no longer felt so brave, but she remembered how upset Mum had been at the thought of the scarf being left in the house so she tiptoed up to the French window, trying to stay flat against the wall so as not to be seen. If the man was in there she would not go inside, and she and Mum would have to think what to do next. But if the room was empty Ella would dash inside, snatch up the scarf, and be outside again in a trice.
The music was still playing, but it seemed to be scraping over and over the same bit of tune. Had the needle got stuck? That had happened once on Clem’s gramophone and it had sounded exactly like this. Surely if the man – or anyone else – had been in that room he would want to put the needle back in place? That must mean it was all right to go in. Moving very cautiously, Ella peered round the edge of the French windows, trying to see into the room. It was pretty dark but nothing seemed to be moving. And there were the flowers and her scarf, lying exactly where she had dropped them, just inside, quite close to the French windows.
She plucked up her courage and stepped over the threshold.
Chapter 14
The too-sweet scent closed round her, but she tried to ignore it and went towards the scarf. In the corner of her eye she could see the chair where the man had been sitting, and she could see the stick on the ground nearby. Next to it was a soft dark cloth, lying in thick folds. Determinedly not looking at anything, Ella
bent down to get her scarf, but doing so brought the bottom of the chair into her line of vision. It was then that she realized, with a jolt of new fear, that the man was still here. He was sitting in the chair, silent, not moving.
Ella’s heart seemed to cartwheel up into her mouth, but she reached for the scarf because if she was very quick she could run outside before he could catch her.
Look at him before you run away, said a horrid voice in her mind. Just one glance, then you’ll see what he’s really like . . . No! thought Ella. No, I mustn’t do that.
But the whole world seemed to have slowed down and her legs were filled with lead like in a nightmare, and she could not move. The dreadful thing was that she really wanted to look at the man, to see him properly, instead of as the shadow he had been in the church.
Already it was easier to see through the dimness. She could make out a big marbly fireplace on the left of the chair, and rugs and tables. There was a door on the other side of the room, which was partly open, and Ella could see a big hall beyond it with pillars and a wide staircase. Should she run out that way? Would it be easier? No, she did not know who else might be in the house. She would go back over the lawn, the way she had come in. She would not look at the man, not even for a second, and in a minute her legs would start to move again. But again the evil little voice said, Before you run away, look at him . . . You know you want to . . .
Ella turned her head, and looked straight at the still silent figure. The music swelled maddeningly back and forth and a dreadful sick horror swept over her, because the figure in the chair was staring back at her; it had wide-open eyes that did not blink, and the mouth had fallen open. Hands in their dark gloves dangled down over the chair’s sides.
Ella was absolutely frozen with terror and although she tried to look away she could not. The figure stared and stared at nothing, and Ella stared back. Her mind was whirling with fear and confusion, but she knew why the curtains had been shut and why the thick veil had covered the face earlier. It was a face you would want to cover all the time – a dreadful face, crusted with sores and scabs, the open mouth even showing scabs inside it.
But it was not the man from St Anselm’s. The person in the chair – the person who had raised the stick and called her mother ‘Ford’ in that sneering way – was a woman, a very thin, very old lady, wearing an old-fashioned black frock that went down to her ankles and shawls of thick lace wound round her neck and over the top of her head.
Ella was very frightened indeed, but she managed to say, a bit croakily, ‘I’m sorry to come in without asking, but I left my scarf behind.’
The woman was still not moving and this time, instead of forcing her unwilling legs to run from the room as fast as possible, Ella found she had taken a shaky step nearer to the woman.
‘I need the scarf for school, you see.’ Nothing. Perhaps Mum had been wrong and a doctor was needed after all. Ella said, ‘Um – are you all right?’ She had no idea what to call the woman. At school they called the teachers ‘miss’, but it didn’t seem quite right to call this woman ‘miss’.
The woman still did not move. She did not even seem to hear or realize Ella was there. She must be unconscious, knocked out from when Ella’s mother bounded forward to knock the stick away from her. Only – did your eyes stay open and staring if you were unconscious? And wouldn’t Mum have fetched a doctor to her, no matter how much they should not have been here? Not if she knew the woman was dead, said Ella’s mind. Dead people had their eyes open like this. Clem had seen his grandmother after she died, he had talked about it for days, saying how dead people stared at nothing for ever and you had to close their eyes.
Ella was not going to try closing this old woman’s eyes, but she was becoming terribly afraid that the woman really was dead. Nobody who was living would sit like this, not speaking or moving, not trying to cover up that terrible face . . .
It was then that, with a teeth-wincing scrape, the music suddenly stopped.
Ella spun round. Standing just inside the room, the light behind him, was the figure of a man. All Ella could see was a dark outline, with a long coat, the collar turned up, but she saw that one hand was still resting on the gramophone on its small table. She could not see his face but she could see it was turned towards her and there was no mistaking him. This really was the man from St Anselm’s. He was here in the room with her.
Ella gasped and it was as if the sound of her gasp released the frozen terror and she was finally able to move. She tumbled across the room and out into the clean sweet evening. As she ran across the lawn she risked a quick glance over her shoulder to see if he was coming after her. No, it was all right. She ran as fast as she could towards the side entrance, out through the little latched door, and along the lane to Mordwich stile, where her mother was waiting. She looked back twice more but the lane was deserted, and Ella reached the stile safely. There were pains in her chest from running so hard, but she did not care. She sank down on the grass, sobbing and shaking, but after a moment managed to gabble out to her mother that she had got the scarf and the hankie, and please could they go straight home.
Neither of them spoke on the way back to their cottage, but as they crossed Mordwich Meadow, Ella risked a glance at her mother. You killed that woman, she thought. I had my eyes shut when you did it because I was frightened so I didn’t see you do it, but I heard it. I know what happened.
It was then that the really scary thought came into her mind.
The man had been in the house all the time. He would have heard the shouting between the old woman and Ella’s mother. Had he been standing in that big cold-looking hall, watching? If so, he too would know what had happened.
They had their cocoa and biscuits, and Mum began to look a bit better and to stop speaking slurrily.
They washed up the cups as they always did – Ella’s mother said it was slovenly to leave dirty china in the sink overnight – and as they were putting them away, she said, ‘Ella, when you went back for your scarf, what did you see in that room? I know it was dark in there, but did you see anything at all?’
Ella thought about saying she had not seen anything, but somehow the words came out before she knew it. ‘I saw the old woman sitting in the chair,’ she said.
‘Ah. I thought you might.’
‘I’m not absolutely sure, but I think she was dead.’
Her mother took so long to answer this that Ella began to think she was not going to say anything at all. But she sat down at the little scrubbed-top table, gesturing to Ella to sit down with her. ‘Yes, she was dead,’ she said. ‘She was very old and very bitter and unhappy. She fell back and knocked her head on the mantelpiece. She was ill anyway – she had been for years and she might have died any day at all.’ She reached out to take Ella’s hand, which was not something she often did. ‘I didn’t kill her,’ she said. ‘Was that what you were thinking? It was an accident.’
Ella said she knew that, of course.
But I don’t know it, she thought, not really. Because before I closed my eyes I saw your face, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget how you looked.
Mum was saying, ‘But the worry now is that if anyone were to hear about what happened – that we were in the house with her when she died . . . People aren’t always kind, Ella, and a lot of people in Upper Bramley – and all the villages – have been very unkind to me. One day, when you’re older, you might understand. When I was young they used to call me cruel names.’
Barrack Room Brenda, thought Ella, still not speaking. I’ve heard that one at school more than once.
‘What I’m trying to say is that if people heard, they’d believe the worst of me.’
‘They’d think you killed that woman.’
‘Yes. D’you know what happens to people who kill?’
‘Um, well, prison, I s’pose.’
‘Yes,’ said Mum slowly. ‘Yes, that’s right. Prison. For a very long time. Years and years.’
‘What would happen to
me?’
Mum took even longer to answer this. Then she said, ‘There’s only you and me, you see. We haven’t got any family you could live with. I’m afraid you’d be put in a children’s home.’
‘Like Bramley Gate?’
‘Yes. Probably it would actually be Bramley Gate.’
‘Oh,’ said Ella blankly. She had seen the Bramley Gate children sometimes. When they went anywhere they walked in what was called a crocodile, led by a cross-looking woman who had a face like granite. They were silent and they all looked sad, and they wore horrid scratchy-looking grey uniforms, with their hair cut in ugly pudding-basin styles. Sometimes a group of them had to come to Ella’s school for an exam and the boys mimicked them behind their backs. The girls said they looked like ragbags and told each other they would die if they had to go round looking like that. Remembering all this, Ella knew she would hate being in Bramley Gate more than anything in the world. She would hate Mum being in prison, as well, of course – she reminded herself how bad that would be – but she did not think she could bear living in Bramley Gate.
There was something else, as well. If Mum went to prison everyone would know. They would point to Ella and say, ‘That’s the daughter of that murderer. That’s Brenda Ford’s girl – Barrack Room Brenda, they used to call her.’ And they would tell each other it would be better to steer clear of Ella Ford. ‘Because you know what they say: like mother like daughter.’
And Ella would grow up with no life and no friends, permanently dressed like a ragbag, sneered at and made fun of . . . She dragged her attention back to what Mum was saying – something about being sure no one had seen them that evening.
‘No one saw us go into Cadence Manor and no one saw us come out,’ she was saying. ‘So there’s no reason why anyone will ever know the truth.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ella obediently.
Lying in bed, later that night, she thought: but someone does know. The man from the church knows. He was in the house all the time – he must have heard the shouting. What if he tells people he saw it all, that he saw Mum lunge forward, her fists raised? Would people believe that? Ella thought they would believe a grown-up – especially someone from Cadence Manor – rather than a little girl from a cottage.