Haverscroft

by S. A. Harris

  I wait, straining my ears although there is no need, the noise was clear. I don’t move a muscle as I hold my breath, seconds then minutes pass, certainty ebbs away. My eyes roam the attic, the golly grins its lopsided grin, clothes still scatter the floor, nothing that’s a likely culprit is here.

  Two slim doors are set flush into the alcove beside the fireplace and behind the armchair. I hadn’t noticed them before. Painted the same pale green as the room, their only give-a-way are two brass knobs, no larger than a fifty-pence coin and just visible above the chair back. The doors stand the height of the room. Cupboards, perhaps?

  I focus on them and wait, hear nothing. I could stand here for hours and not hear anything. There was nothing yesterday, although Sophie says she heard the knocking this morning. Open the doors, how hard can it be?

  The chair is heavy as I drag it away from the cupboard, its feet scrape against the floorboards. Nothing’s been here. No footprints have disturbed the floorboard’s coating of dust until my feet did earlier. I reach out my hand and grip one of the knobs, ball-shaped, with grooves running around it like ripples in water. The cold metal sinks into the palm of my hand.

  I tug.

  It’s a half-hearted movement with little strength in it. The door doesn’t shift. Stepping back, my arm almost fully outstretched, I pull hard. The door jerks open, I stumble backwards and collide with the chair. I hadn’t intended to scream. I glance over my shoulder, an empty room, no one to hear me. I look back at the cupboard, a stink of mould leaches into the air. A rail runs across the top of the space, packed tight with jackets, shirts and blazers. Children’s clothes, similar in size to the twins’.

  Below the rail is a series of shelves neatly piled with folded jumpers and shirts. I pull the second door towards me. Something on the edge of my vision moves, flies at my face. I hold up my hands, scream again. A shoebox clatters to rest in the dust near my feet.

  A pair of white cricket shoes have spilt across the floor. A black metal box lies beside the shoes. I thank goodness it didn’t hit me on the head. Other boxes are piled behind the door and look precarious, the cardboard failing, collapsing in the dampness. I’ve been screaming at a pair of cricket shoes. The metal box is the type lawyers kept deeds and documents secure in years ago. It has handles at each end. I pick it up.

  Tap, tap.

  Twice. Much louder than before.

  I stare at the cupboard, the packed space. The mouldering smell, thick with damp. The chimney breast is to my right, the sound seems to come from there, although from above me too. My eyes scan the crease where the ceiling meets the wall. A great patch of black spore-filled stain spreads like canker across the ceiling. Triangles of cobwebs in corners, strands of them hang lankly down the walls. I put the metal box on the chair and reach out my hand to the chimney breast. The painted plaster is blistered and crumbles under my touch. The noise comes again, more faintly but this time I feel it too, the vibration under my hand as though the dankness tries to shiver itself under my skin.

  I snatch my hand away. My palm, peppered with green flakes, looks deceased and rotting. Still staring at the chimney breast I press my hands together, rubbing, trying to remove the slivers of paint. They stick to my skin. I rub them against my hips, snatch-up the metal box and head back through the room. I can’t think what can be making the noises. I glance over my shoulder at the fireplace, no sound, just the thud of my stockinged feet on the boards as I run for the stairs.

  Chapter 6

  Sunday, 10th October

  ‘I’ve gone through the shoebox, none of the keys fit,’ I say. Mark grins hearing the frustration in my voice.

  ‘Let me try a screwdriver,’ he says, opening the garage door. ‘I’ve a small one that might just spring the lock.’

  I place the box on the bench beside the Armstrong Siddeley. Mark tries wiggling a couple of screwdrivers in the lock.

  ‘You knew about the attic, didn’t you? Is that what Mrs Havers’ letter was about?’

  Mark rattles a tiny screwdriver in the lock and tugs at the handle on the box lid.

  ‘There’s all sorts in this garage,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘A bit of wire and some WD40 might shift it.’

  ‘If you knew about the stuff in the attic, why didn’t you say something?’

  He’s trying another screwdriver, bent over the box, all I see is the top of his head, his short dark hair.

  ‘The surveyor told me about it and emailed some photos across.’ Mark stands, drops the screwdriver onto the bench. ‘It’ll have to be cut open, I think. Bit of a shame, it’s a nice old box.’

  He knows I’m not interested in the box right this second so I wait.

  ‘The plan was to get a skip and a couple of local guys to clear it before we moved in. I didn’t want you freaking out about it. The hassle the surveyor had getting access was absurd. Even then, Mrs Havers had us both sworn to secrecy.’ Mark grins, like Tom when he’s been up to no good. ‘It’s killing the estate agent, not knowing what’s up there.’

  I quash my anger. Weekends are precious and a row would ruin the short time we have before he heads off tomorrow morning.

  ‘Why has she left the room that way? Did something happen to her children?’

  Mark shrugs. ‘She’s nuts is all I know. Kids died of measles, all sorts of things back then, didn’t they?’

  ‘Enough to drive anyone insane, losing their children,’ I say.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, stepping towards me. ‘This is just why I didn’t say anything.’ I look up into his face. ‘For God’s sake, don’t go in the attic again, Kate. If you fall down those stairs when you’re home alone it won’t be good. At least we know where the knocking’s coming from. I’ll skip the lot when the builders are here to give me a hand. Until then, keep out of the attic.’

  My shoulders shake, a shiver creeping through my chest. ‘Someone walked over my grave. It’s damp out here.’ I try to smile, to cover my dread of this house. This last week’s seemed like a lifetime. Mark wraps his arms around me. He’s warm and safe, I wish he was here more often.

  ‘It’s been a tough few days, what with the move, the weird interview, all the upheaval. It’ll take time for everything to settle down. Let me take the kids to the supermarket, give you a breather. Before we go, though,’ he says taking my hand, ‘have a look at this.’

  He pulls me towards the rear of the Armstrong Siddeley and opens the boot.

  ‘I was keeping it secret until I got it going, but it’ll cheer you up after the Lovett and Lyle episode. See what you think.’

  Mark delves into the boot and pulls out a cardboard box. His excited tone suggests he’s found something he thinks I’ll like. He flips back the lid. A record deck nestles amongst white polystyrene beads.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, leaning closer.

  ‘I found it in a charity shop one lunchtime. It needs a stylus and a new belt, then it should be good to go. The speakers are in the Audi. Bang and Olufsen. Even your mum’s old vinyl should sound great.’

  He lifts the deck from the box. The same model I’d owned years ago. I lift the lid and spin the turntable gently with my forefinger.

  ‘It needs a bit of a clean.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I say.

  Mark lowers the deck back into the polystyrene and puts it on the bench beside the metal box. He’s understood better about Mum since his father died. I’ll never be able to part with her records; like the sofa, they travel with me. I reach up and grab hold of the collar of his wax jacket, he pulls me close, his lips hot on mine. I think things will be okay.

  Shrieks and mischievous laughter, running feet, scrunching gravel. We step apart and move towards the front of the garage. First Tom, then Sophie sprint towards us. Tom pulls up beside me and I see from the satisfied grin on his face something’s up.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I say.

  ‘He
threw that at me! It’s dirty and creepy and he did it on purpose!’ says Sophie, jabbing a finger towards her brother. My son holds the balding golly in one hand. The knees of Tom’s jeans are grey with dust, both hands filthy.

  ‘Have you been in the attic?’ Mark’s tone is angry.

  ‘No, no we haven’t, have we Tom?’

  ‘It was your idea!’ Tom slings the golly towards his sister. Sophie throws up her arms, bats the golly away. It falls limply to the ground, one eye staring up at us.

  ‘Can’t you keep them under control, Kate?’ says Mark, kicking the golly to one side as he heads off towards the house. ‘It’s not appropriate for them to be around something like that.’

  The twins stare up at me, Tom’s mischievous grin and Sophie’s anger, gone.

  ‘Come on, kids, if you’re coming to the supermarket,’ says Mark as he vanishes around the corner of the building. Sophie glances at me and runs after Mark.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Tom as he heads after his sister.

  I like this room. Sunlight streams through the open French windows from the terrace. Maybe it’s the hours spent in here this week, wallpaper stripping, Mrs Cooper’s radio on, the space more familiar than the rest of the house. She says Mrs Havers spent her time here, calls it the morning room. The bedroom with the smelly pink carpet is just above. Once stripped and redecorated, it too will be a bright, airy room.

  I put the record deck on the paste table and grab a clean paintbrush, flick dust from the turntable. I plug it in, lift the arm and watch the deck spin. Just a stylus then. Mum’s LPs are in their case in the dining room with the rest of our stuff yet to be unpacked. I’m smiling, I realise.

  I cross the room and close the windows. The gardener keeps the long border immaculate, spectacular, Mark says, in June and July, but I can’t remember any of it. I turn back to the room, an hour or so, enough time to finish stripping the old paper. It’s like it’s embedded in the walls. I smile again at the twins’ graffiti, a boy throwing a ball for a small scruffy dog on one wall is Sophie’s, Tom’s stickmen battling aliens on another.

  I pick up the stripping knife and start scraping. Mark reckons I’m reading too much into the interview, miscommunication between busy partners, maybe he’s right, he usually is. Does he think I’ve failed, let him down, again? The record deck’s perfect, a replica of what I had before, no bland box of chocolates, or limp forecourt flowers. So why isn’t he here, moving chambers? Has he a reason to be in London? He kept the attic secret, Mrs Havers’ letter, what else?

  I bump my forefinger along the slimy edge of the stripping knife, flick gluey shreds to the floor. She’d been attentive to Mark all afternoon, it wasn’t me being paranoid, other guests noticed, side glances at Mark laughing too quickly, too loudly. I wipe the blade between my fingers. I won’t go to a chambers do again, no need for me to be there, wives don’t usually go. It makes no difference I’m a lawyer too. I dig at the wall. Layer upon layer upon layer of old paper. Why insist I go, though? Rub my nose in it? Cassie’s attractive, ash-blond hair, like mine before it darkened after the twins. I could lighten it, grow it again.

  I’m staring at a wall of ripped old paper, not moving a muscle. It’s absurd, if anything’s going on with Cassie he wouldn’t have taken me, made it so obvious. His mother would love her, even her name’s just right, Cassandra Lewis-Brown.

  Thump thump.

  The sound makes me jump.

  Thump thump.

  It’s coming from above me. I stare at the ceiling, grey strands of cobweb stir in the draught from the hall. Something, someone is in the spare room. I clench the stripping knife. This is unlike the sharp crack and knock from the attic. What then? I hear only my breathing. Had I imagined it?

  Thump.

  My ears strain for every sound. Silence hisses in the cold air. I wait. The room above here is empty and locked. No one is in the house. No one is upstairs. The hall door is open. I’m glad of my trainers as I tiptoe across piles of shredded and soggy paper and stop on the threshold and listen.

  Nothing. My mobile’s on the hall table beside the bowl, next to the box and Bakelite phone where I’d dumped everything in my rush to inspect the record deck. I creep across the tiles to the table and scan the landing and stairs. Not a sound, not even the plink of the radiators. I grab my mobile and dash back to the morning room, slam the door and turn the key. I twist the brass knob, shake it, check the door’s locked.

  I could call Mark. No signal. I stand still, listening again for what seems like hours but can only be two, three minutes at most. Nothing more.

  I step across to the French windows. One bar of signal, maybe enough to connect? What do I say to Mark? I heard a strange noise? I’m thirty-eight years old. A grown woman, for goodness’ sakes. I push the mobile into the back pocket of my jeans.

  Whatever it was isn’t making a sound now. Something isn’t right though, something niggles at the back of my mind. This room is cluttered with decorating paraphernalia, buckets, step ladders and paint tins. Not in here, in the hall. The stuff I dumped on the table, everything’s there, except the golly. I dropped the hideous thing beside the metal box after I waved goodbye to the twins. I’m sure I did. It wasn’t on the table just now. Or was it? I stare at the door to the hall. I can’t go out there again.

  I turn back to the room and pick my way through sticky shreds of paper to the fireplace. I hit the power button on Mrs Cooper’s radio, turn up the volume and start scraping the wall.

  Chapter 7

  The door to the morning room rattles and bangs in its frame. I freeze, stripping knife in hand and stare at the door. The doorknob is twisting, light glinting off metal.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy! Come and look, we’ve got a dog!’ Sophie yelling through the door, her voice competing with the newsreader’s voice on the radio. The whole of me sags with relief. I switch off the radio, dash across the room and unlock the door.

  Tom bounces with excitement behind his sister. ‘Come and look!’

  The twins turn and run back through the hall, too manically excited to see they scared their stupid mother half to death. I drop the stripping knife on the floor amongst the mess of ripped paper, take a breath and follow them as far as the front door. I stand on the bristling mat. Mark roots around in the boot of the car, only scruffy jeans and old deck shoes visible.

  ‘A dog?’

  ‘Yes!’ Tom pulls the sleeve of my old sweatshirt, urging me down the steps.

  ‘Only a little one. Dad said it won’t need walking too far. I’m going to feed him in the mornings, Sophie will after school.’

  ‘We’re calling him Riley,’ says Sophie as she runs towards the car.

  Mark struggles with a large cardboard box which declares it holds washing powder. I’m guessing, not any longer. He hauls it to the edge of the boot and lifts a dirty, some might say creamy, white dog out of it. He straightens up, the twins at his feet, their hands stretch up to pat the furry body.

  ‘We thought we’d surprise you! This is Riley, we think anyway.’ Mark looks at the twins and I guess there’s been some ‘discussion’ over the name.

  ‘Riley, like the other dog,’ Sophie declares in her ‘I’ll have my way’ tone.

  The dog is small, terrier in size and some features. Short tufty fur and ears suggest some Scottie’s got in there too.

  ‘Other dog?’ I say. I’m entirely out of the loop with this whole dog thing.

  Mark walks towards me holding the dog in his arms above the twins’ heads, his smile, wide, until he takes in my expression. My face feels stiff, my arms, crossed against my chest, clench tight. Anger boils, I can’t speak. I turn on my heel and stride back into the hall. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me? Why doesn’t Mark value any opinion I hold?

  The hush behind me is palpable. Furtive whispering, Mark to the twins, it enrages me further. I stop beside the stairs, turn around
and face the three of them. Mark stands just feet from me, uncertainty written into his features. The twins watch at his side.

  ‘We thought you’d like him,’ says Mark.

  ‘Why? Why would I? Haven’t I made myself clear? Why turn up with that when you know I don’t want a dog?’ I jab a finger at the furry bundle he holds.

  ‘Don’t you like him, Mummy?’ Tom’s voice is quiet and tremulous. I keep my eyes firmly on Mark’s face.

  ‘You’ll be off back to London in the morning. Not taking it with you, are you? So it’s down to me to look after it as the twins won’t be here either, will they?’

  Sophie starts to cry and the boys look astonished. All I feel is gathering, boiling rage. I push past them and run up the stairs.

  I reach the top of the flight and flick the landing light switch. The replacement bulb’s glare exposes every chip in the thick cream paintwork, the grey trail in the centre of the sickly-green runner. The spare room door is wide open, the twins presumably exploring there as well as the attic. Mark will go nuts if he finds out. Someone, most likely Mark, will try to find me, the spare room’s the last place he’ll look. I’ve absolutely nothing to say to him.

  The light bulb flickers, buzzes like an angry insect. I screw my eyes against its naked glare. Shadows bounce off filthy ceiling and walls, light flares blindingly bright. I hurry towards the spare room. The bulb plinks, grey gloom falls across the landing.

  I stop on the threshold of the room. Cigarettes, as if someone finished one moments ago. Mark’s nipped in here for a sneaky smoke, why lie about quitting? Does he lie about other stuff too? No sign of what made the thumping noises. Only the space where the huge metal bed used to be. Whose room was this? Who slept here? The dressing table, tucked in the alcove beside the hearth, is an ugly thing, its heavy wood so dark it’s all but black. I see me, times three, in the tall foxed old mirrors. My cheeks are red, my eyes glassy. The chaise longue in front of the French windows is elegant, the silk and brocade faded to a soft powder blue. I can’t hear anything from downstairs. Perhaps Mark and the kids went outside. I over-reacted, especially in front of the twins. What the hell came over me?