Haverscroft

by S. A. Harris

  ‘Mrs Keeling, good morning!’

  The booming voice makes me jump, but I recognise it before the tweed suit comes into view. A puffing Mr Whittle smiles and waves a rolled-up sheaf of sales particulars to catch my attention as he jogs down steep steps outside an adjacent building. I stop and wait for him to reach me.

  ‘How have you settled into Haverscroft?’

  ‘Just fine, thanks. Packing boxes everywhere, but we’re getting there, I think.’

  ‘No problems at all?’ He peers closely at me, lowers the glasses perched on the front of his bald head and studies my face.

  ‘Problems? None we didn’t expect from the ancient heating and electrics. They’re all a bit temperamental, as you know.’

  ‘Good, good!’ He stands back and shoves the glasses back to his forehead. ‘It takes a while to get the feel of a big old place. How’s Mrs Cooper? I mean, is she coming in for you? She did for old Mrs Havers and a little bit here and there when the place was empty, you know.’

  He taps the roll of particulars on the palm of his hand and seems a little nervous stepping from one foot to the other. Perhaps it’s me. Colour rushes to my cheeks at the recollection of the first day we met: me, mute on Haverscroft’s weed-strewn drive; Mr Whittle gazing down from the top step, the front door wide open at his back. Mark coaxed me inside, but I’d barely managed to string two words together all afternoon. He’s dealt with Mark ever since.

  ‘She’s at the house today, as a matter of fact. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m terribly late for an appointment.’

  ‘Of course! Your meeting with Oliver Lyle’s this morning, is it?’

  The surprise he knows must show on my face. He catches my expression and smiles, extends his hand towards the building he just came from. Lovett and Lyle Solicitors has a gleaming brass knob, knocker and plate fixed to a glossy black door.

  ‘I’ve known Oliver for years. He’s been needing help with wills ever since Miss Dyer retired. Must be over a year ago now.’

  He dashes to the door and holds it open for me.

  ‘Let me know what old Mrs Havers has stashed away in those attic rooms, won’t you now!’ His eyes shine with mischief as he beams at me. ‘Poor old girl. Alzheimer’s, you know. She really didn’t want to sell up, but with the cost of care-home fees these days.’ He shakes his head. ‘Be warned, Oliver can be a crotchety old bugger at times. I’ll wish you good luck!’

  ‘Come in, Mrs Keeling, come in! It is Mrs Keeling?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, unsure how to respond to the man opening an enormous pile of post at reception. A woman sits at the desk answering incoming calls. He stops slitting envelopes long enough to extend his hand. I shake it, cool and bony, fingernails digging into my skin.

  ‘Oliver Lyle.’

  The whole of him is pencil-thin and angular, grey suit hanging with excess fabric about shoulders and knees. The top of his domed head is balding, dark grey eyes sharp beneath greying bushy eyebrows. A thin man grown thinner, shrunken in on himself as the years advanced.

  ‘How are you finding Haverscroft?’

  Today’s hot topic of conversation.

  ‘Fine, thank you. Still unpacking.’

  I try to place a relaxed smile on my face, but it feels stiff, like cold plastic, I doubt very much it fools the solicitor into thinking I feel calm and confident. I had no time to collect myself after Mr Whittle ushered me in. The solicitor stares at me. Does he expect me to speak? I swallow, try to squash the panic down.

  ‘I’ve called Haverscroft several times this morning. I must have missed you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There’s been a bit of a mix-up. Lovett, my partner, misunderstood what I’m needing in terms of help here. I’m sorry, but we’re wasting your time today.’

  I hardly know what to say. I have no qualifications or experience with wills, probate or trusts, but assumed I’d learn on the job. My CV makes it clear how my career has run so far.

  ‘With your background, I’m sure you’ll be better placed in Ipswich, Colchester, or Cambridge perhaps.’ He smiles, the expression as cold as his skin.

  ‘But we do have these ready for you.’ He reaches across to a shelf behind the young woman and picks up a thick brown envelope. ‘Pre-registration deeds for Haverscroft. I’m not sure what good they are to you, but Whittle tells me you require them.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the envelope. It’s quite heavy with thick black writing across the front: For Collection.

  ‘I’m intending to research the history of the house: who built it, who’s lived there and when.’

  Again, the man stares. The woman is off the phone, I feel her eyes on my face. My face that has grown hot, and is getting hotter.

  ‘I should’ve made more progress before we moved. We’ve no internet at present, so I can’t do much, not without the internet . . .’

  Nervous gabbling, he isn’t interested in hearing this. I stop. Shut up.

  ‘Will you visit her, Mrs Havers, I mean?’

  ‘Should I?’ This conversation is going places I don’t understand. Why would I visit a woman I’ve never met just because we bought her house?

  ‘We wondered if you’d keep that part of the bargain. An odd term and quite unenforceable, as you’ll be aware. I’d caution you against visiting if you’re considering it. She’s unwell and has been for some time; she’s not in her right mind. Whittle’s had a torrid time dealing with her, as I’m sure he’ll confirm. I understand you have agreed to keep on her domestic and gardener though.’

  He scrutinises my features as he speaks, his grey eyes dart about my face. I can’t think with him looking at me all the time. My mouth is dry, my chest tightening. These must be things Mark’s dealt with. More stuff he’s held back so as not to worry me.

  ‘There’s a second letter in there, I’m afraid, along with the attic keys.’ He’s looking at the envelope I’m holding. No wonder it has some weight to it.

  ‘Second letter?’

  ‘In addition to the one Mrs Havers sent you and your husband during the summer. Rather prolific, her correspondence, I’m afraid. We’re merely obliged to pass these things on, you understand; nothing to do with this firm.’

  ‘I don’t know about any letter.’

  I need to get out of here, get some air. I don’t remember any letter from Mrs Havers.

  ‘I hope it didn’t trouble you? She sent letters to all prospective buyers. Some of them were quite nasty, so Lovett tells me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lyle, I’ve never received any letters from Mrs Havers.’

  ‘I really wouldn’t trouble yourself about it. Whatever nonsense she was peddling is hardly relevant, not now you’ve moved into the house.’

  Chapter 5

  I pick my way along Haverscroft’s weed-choked driveway, court shoes pinching my toes. The red-brick house hunches into a hollow, brooding under a black canopy of beech and yew. Ivy clambers up the side of the building, claims a chimney stack, smothers a dormer window. Pustules of green moss scatter the roof, a slipped grey slate here and there. A tall man, slightly stooping, is deep in conversation at the foot of the front steps with Mrs Cooper.

  She leans on a bicycle, glances my way as I near them. A hurried exchange, furtive glances in my direction. A conversation about the new inhabitants of Haverscroft House.

  ‘Back already, love? You’ve met Richard Denning?’

  The man holds an axe in one hand, raises his other to his flat woven cap and touches its brim. A hazy recollection of him deadheading roses, the dark red climber on the back terrace, his check shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows on a stifling hot day in June when we looked over the house.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, aware Mrs Cooper misses nothing, her eyes scanning the heavy brown envelope I’m holding.

  ‘Richard’s wanting to know if you’ll be needing l
ogs. Mrs Havers always did, didn’t she now?’ The man nods. Mrs Cooper runs on, ‘Said I couldn’t think why you wouldn’t, for the stove and the other rooms.’

  Something in me wants to say she’s wrong. We won’t want any such thing.

  ‘That would be great, thank you.’

  Richard Denning touches his cap again and heads away towards the rear of the house.

  ‘Don’t mind Richard, none, love. Never has too much to say, but he’ll see you’re alright if you have any problems. I left you a note on the kitchen table. The new reverend called, he said he’d try to catch you at home another day. You can’t miss him, he comes over on that great motorbike of his. Terrible racket it makes.’

  ‘I bumped into Mr Whittle on the high street. He was asking after you.’

  She doesn’t respond, continues to look steadily at me. Friendly conversation seems a good idea after our rather bumpy start this morning. I’m hoping I haven’t offended her. I try again, ‘I said you were in today. He’s the estate agent who dealt with the Haverscroft sale.’

  ‘I know Mr Whittle.’

  Her tone is flat. Not her easy-rolling chatter. She pulls her bike onto the drive.

  ‘Did you get the children off alright?’

  ‘A bit late, but it didn’t seem to bother them.’

  ‘Such lovely children, aren’t they. So excited about getting a little dog.’

  She mounts the bike, sets the peddle ready to head off.

  ‘Same time then, next week?’

  ‘That would be great, thanks. We’ll be a bit more organised for you by then. Would you do the bedrooms? I’ll start decorating downstairs this week.’

  ‘I don’t go upstairs, love, didn’t you know? Mrs Havers suffered terribly with her knees. She kept herself to the kitchen and morning room, so she did.’

  She pushes off before I can respond, I step back to let her pass. ‘Don’t worry waiting in for me, I’ve still got the keys Mrs Havers gave me. See you next week!’

  I watch her peddle up the drive and wonder who else has keys I know nothing about.

  The deeds spread across the kitchen table, my mug of coffee stone cold at my elbow. Oliver Lyle is right, these give me little information other than a few old Havers family names and rough dates when they lived here. They owned quite a bit of land, running from the back lane down to the river. All sold off over the years. Somewhere to start, at least. And I feel calmer now. The interview had shaken me. So stupid. The solicitor made up his mind before he met me. Did he know something about me? Has he spoken with Mark? Perhaps Mr Whittle told him how I was in the summer, odd, vacant, strung out on stress and pills. Or was I over-analysing things, making something out of nothing? Mark would say I am.

  The small, black attic key is beside Mrs Havers’ letter. Was I really not going up there until the weekend? I pick up the letter, read it again for the umpteenth time.

  Fairfields

  Weldon

  1st October

  Dear Mr And Mrs Keeling

  You will have purchased Haverscroft and most likely moved in by the time you read this correspondence. You have chosen to ignore my earlier communication; I very much hope it is not to your cost. You are aware of the reasons I resisted selling the house to you or indeed anyone else. They made me sell as you know. I shall not trouble you with a repetition of my concerns.

  I reside at the above address; call upon me at your very earliest convenience. I would discuss with you the business of the attic.

  Yours truly

  Mrs Alice Havers

  I don’t know what to make of her letter. I’ll be none the wiser if I read it a dozen more times. What happened to her earlier letter? Did her solicitor send it to us? I’m inclined to think he would. My memory had been non-existent in the days and weeks after the breakdown. By the summer though, it was back, confused and muddled, but I’m confident I’d remember a letter from Mrs Havers. I was desperate to hang on to any reason not to come here. Was that why Mark, perhaps, kept it from me?

  I pick up the attic key and turn it between my fingers. Does Mark know what’s up there? Wouldn’t he have spoken to our surveyor, even if he hadn’t had access himself? He’ll never know if I take a look.

  The staircase is opposite the front door on the left side of the hall. At the top it sweeps right to a dingy, galleried landing. I’ve forgotten to buy batteries for Mark’s torch. Mrs Cooper’s leaves are correct about the weather. Clouds scud past beyond the tall casement windows either side of the front door. Light and shadow flicker across the floor tiles, wind puffs and whistles into the fireplace beneath the stairs. My breath is short and shallow. I’m being absurd. At this rate I’ll be like Mrs Cooper, never going upstairs in my own home.

  My fingers tighten around the cool, polished bannister. The tiles drain the warmth from my stockinged feet as I listen. No creaking floorboards. No unexplained noises. No doors slamming. Only the occasional tick and gurgle in the ancient radiators. The landing, the entire house, is silent. I have to get used to this place, being alone here. I head up the stairs.

  The doors to the spare bedroom and office remain closed, the peculiar odour, faint. We need to strip out all the upstairs carpets, get rid of the smell. I don’t try the light. Our final bulb blew last night. Even Mark’s running out of motivation to replace them. The torch from his box of essential stuff stands at the top of the stairs, useless without fresh batteries. I’ll shop in Weldon before I collect the twins tonight.

  I head in the half-light past our room, past the twins’ rooms, the bathroom and stop just before the office. To my left is the narrow attic door. I’d assumed it was a cupboard when we first looked around Haverscroft. Set flush with the wall, the paint, yellowed and chipped, it blends into the grimy paper and is close to invisible.

  My hands fumble with the tiny metal key. It rattles in the lock. There isn’t absolute silence in London like there is here. Always the murmur of traffic, a siren or the bustle and voices of neighbours through partition walls. I’d failed to understand how comforting sounds of life are until there are none. I jiggle the key, it lodges into place, turns effortlessly. The door swings open towards me.

  A narrow space, no more than a shoulder’s width. Deep wooden stairs rise and curve to the left, a black metal handrail spirals upward out of sight. My feet slither into hollows worn in the centre of each tread as I climb. Mrs Havers’ knees wouldn’t have managed these in years if Mrs Cooper’s to be believed. Cramped, steep and twisting, they must be a nightmare to descend. A short stretch of handrail and half a dozen spindles guard the room against the drop to the stairs. I stop on the third from top step, peep between the spindles at a long, low room.

  A narrow section of ceiling runs centrally between two sides of steeply sloping roof, striped green and cream blinds sag at four dormer windows. Two single beds, tucked under the eaves, tumbles of covers and sheets on them as if their occupants had just left. A washstand, a low chest of drawers between the small beds.

  I clear the stairs and duck my head as I step into the room. The bare floorboards are covered in dust, a grittiness between my toes, a snag in the foot of my tights running for my ankle. I should have kept my shoes on. At the furthest end of the room is a small grate, the mantel crammed with trophies and photographs.

  The first bed has a golly lying across the jumble of sheets, his red felt smile peeling at the edges, black button eyes fixed on the ceiling. Most of his curly hair has worn away, his ­sailor-blue jacket and striped red and black trousers are grimy. I can’t imagine a child playing with such a sinister rag doll.

  I pass the first bed, a sock abandoned on the floor, a cream Airtex shirt pushed under the second bed. Next to the fireplace, a chair in faded chintz, a book in the well of its seat. I pick up the book, its pages are dead and lank between my fingers. I don’t recognise the title and drop it back onto the chair.

 
The row of framed photographs on the mantel are interspersed with cricket trophies. I pick up the nearest photograph and rub my forefinger through the dust on the glass. A woman leans against the terrace outside the morning room, her arms around two blond boys. A young Mrs Havers with her children? I replace the photo, look along the length of the mantel. Another of the same woman, again, standing on the terrace, a summer’s evening. Fair and slim in an evening gown, she looks frail beside her taller, dark-haired companion. He leans on a cane, very dapper, smoking a cigarette, he has a bored look about him, perhaps the photographer is taking too long. I replace the photograph on the mantel.

  I’m like a thief in the night trespassing on other people’s lives. I glance toward the stairs and at the room. Mrs Havers’ children’s things. Their room. Two little boys of eight or nine years old, I’d guess. Tom’s age or thereabouts. What happened to them? Something so dreadful their mother kept this room, never altered or cleared it? I can’t contemplate losing the twins. How does a parent deal with it, whatever the circumstances. The anxiety when Tom struggles to breathe is unbearable. I can’t sleep, sit beside his bed listening to each struggling intake of air, willing them to continue and never stop. The attic is disturbing, creepy, a little ghoulish. More than anything, desperately sad. I’ve seen enough, time to head back to the warmth of the kitchen.

  The tap, tap is soft and barely audible.

  I spin around, a turn in the pit of my stomach. Nothing is here to make a sound. Is this the noise that so concerned the children, annoyed Mark? He said sometimes it’s loud, sometimes soft. It seems to be in this room, close behind me, but at the same time coming eerily distant from another part of the house.