Haverscroft

by S. A. Harris

  Mark had known I hated those events. Another evening waiting for him to show up, making polite conversation with his colleagues, getting steadily more drunk and angry as the evening wore on, as texts from Mark rolled in, still working, always working, running late, too late, going straight home. Would someone give me a lift, he asked? I even know the precise time everything changed, Big Ben chiming way off in the distance as my nails dug into the yielding cream leather of the Bentley’s back seat.

  Riley barks, yanking on the lead, impatient to move on from the spot I’ve been frozen to. The church tower rises into view above the yews crowding the churchyard. The river arcs left here, widens, heads towards the North Sea. Tucked inside the bend, moored to the bank, is a single houseboat. A row of narrow windows, coloured light spilling through drawn curtains onto the towpath. On deck is a fraying wicker chair, but no sign of Richard Denning.

  I turn right, tug on the lead and drag Riley up the steep muddy track past the church. The first heavy spots of rain patter my face. I glance back along the lane. No sign of anyone. The wind whips rain in my face and spins leaves across the path. The sluggish sense of nothingness creeps over me as it so often does when Stephen and that night shoves its way to the forefront of my thoughts. Perhaps I don’t deserve the absolution I’ve craved all these months? The lych gate is set in the brick and flint wall surrounding the graveyard. I turn the metal ring and push it open.

  Rain bounces off the path that leads to a black church door. Riley tugs his lead as I shelter beneath the heavy boughs of a yew. The gravestones here are recent, I’m looking for something much older. Wind shakes the tree, shadows rock and deepen, the light fading. The graveyard isn’t somewhere I want to be in a downpour. I’ll come back with pen and notebook, research things another day.

  Mrs Cooper flings open the front door as Riley and I dash up the front steps.

  ‘Oh, look at the pair of you, soaked to the skin!’

  She slams the front door on a flurry of wet leaves and driving rain. Riley shakes, water droplets spray across the tiles.

  ‘I thought we’d be back before the clouds burst, but it’s so slow walking a dog.’ I’m laughing, stripping off my wet coat and scarf, see her concerned expression, her eyes focused on the landing.

  ‘Are you okay, Mrs Cooper?’

  ‘There’s been something banging, like the devil knocking to come in. It’s stopped now, but it’s been right loud. I heard it in the kitchen when I turned the radio off.’

  ‘We’ve had a weekend of weird noises. I’ve called a couple of builders in case there was something loose in the attic or the roof. A dove was thumping around in the spare room, frightened the life out of me.’

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’ Mrs Cooper covers her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide. ‘Foretells a death, so it does, a bird in the house.’

  I can’t help laughing, but stop myself short, she’s quite serious.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Mark put it out. There was no harm done.’

  She watches as I shake out my coat. Riley yaps and wags his tail.

  ‘You’re a happy little fella so I guess there’s nothing too much to worry over. Let’s see what we have for you, shall we?’

  I follow them across the hall to the kitchen.

  ‘I was going to walk around the churchyard before the weather closed in. Are the Havers buried there?’

  ‘Come through to the kitchen. Have a warm up while I see what we have for this little dog.’

  The kitchen is cosy, spotlessly tidy and smelling of something spicy. A cinnamon cake cools on a wire rack on the kitchen table. Mrs Cooper must have heard my question. She knows something, she usually does. She puts a plate of meat scraps in front of a frantic Riley. I can only think she brought these with her along with the lead this morning, nothing looks like it came from our fridge.

  ‘Riley, you say?’

  ‘According to Sophie. I must ask her where she got the name.’

  She joins me beside the stove as I warm my hands around the oven rail. A cardboard box on the floor, just beyond the stove, has an old blue blanket in it. She’s anticipated Riley’s arrival for sure.

  .‘So why are you looking for the Havers’ graves?’ A frown draws her eyebrows closer.

  ‘Just curiosity really. It would be interesting to see who’s lived here, what they did, where they came from. It’s a bit daft, but I’ll feel better about the house if I get to know who was here before us.’

  ‘The family plot’s towards the rear of the churchyard . There’s great black railings round it so you can’t miss them. Mrs Havers’ late husband, Edward, he’s there. She’s the one to tell you about the house.’ She nods towards the worktop. ‘Letter came while you were out.’

  An envelope is propped up in front of the kettle. Even at this distance I recognise the thick cream paper, blue ink, precise looping handwriting.

  ‘She’ll be wanting you to visit’s my guess.’

  I cross the kitchen, pick up the letter and open it.

  Fairfields

  Weldon

  8th October

  Dear Mrs Keeling,

  Further to my letter of 1st October, I understand you have ventured into the attic. You have been good enough to retain Mrs Cooper and Mr Denning. I must insist you honour the rest of our bargain and call upon me.

  I will expect you 2pm sharp this coming Friday afternoon.

  Yours truly,

  Mrs Alice Havers

  I look at Mrs Cooper and raise my eyebrows. ‘She’s very direct,’ I say, although blunt and rude might be more accurate. ‘Do you visit her?’

  ‘When I can. Richard’s regular, he visits every week, come rain or shine. They go way back.’

  ‘Maybe I should go?’ I say more to myself than to our cleaner.

  ‘I’d go, love. Ask all the questions you want then.’

  ‘I understand she has Alzheimer’s.’ I tell her about Mr Whittle and Mr Lyle.

  ‘Nothing wrong with her other than her temper and a pair of arthritic old knees.’

  ‘Why would they say that then?’

  She’s quiet for a moment, watching me as though deciding what to say.

  ‘Lyle’s father was a lovely old gentleman. He started up the firm with Mr Lovett and was as honest as the day is long. His son’s a different kettle of fish, I can’t take to him at all. Makes me feel right uncomfortable, he does.’ She’s frowning as she speaks. ‘Nasty piece of work, he is. Whittle’s a fool, running about doing his bidding. He should know better at his time of life.’ Mrs Cooper stops speaking, her eyes all the time on my face. ‘You go visit Mrs Havers and see for yourself.’

  She’s annoyed, loyal, I’m guessing, to the lady she’s known and worked for, for years. I explain about my trip into the attic. Laugh about my fright over the knocking sounds, the metal box that’s so frustrated our attempts to open it.

  ‘It looks like nothing’s moved up there in decades. It seems so terribly sad. What happened to her children?’

  ‘I did wonder if the children’s things were up there. She doesn’t speak about them, two little boys they were. I only know it was a terrible accident a year or two before I was born. I saw your metal box on the telephone table – you’re not meant to get in there in a hurry.’

  ‘It’ll probably be full of nothing. Why else would it get left behind?’

  I drop the letter onto the table beside the cake and look back at Mrs Cooper. Riley’s curled up at her feet. I wait, hoping the usual chatter will spill out a little more detail.

  ‘Mrs Havers will tell you what she wants you to know. She’s a very private woman, very proper. She always wrote her correspondence in the morning room each day while I was here cleaning. She did her garden in the afternoons.’ She watches Riley for a moment. ‘My parents used to talk about her husband. He was a drinker, liked the women. Hap
py to chuck tenants out if they fell on hard times and couldn’t pay the rent. Not much fun to be married to, I wouldn’t think.’

  ‘And to lose their children,’ I say. ‘Did they drown? In the pond? It’s just that Mr Whittle told us when we looked around that it’s very deep and has steep sides. Such a big expanse of water worries me. Mark says I fret too much, so do the twins. But I get a bad feeling there.’

  ‘A car accident, love. Not many back in those days. The children were playing out and something happened. It was a terrible tragedy.’

  ‘Are they buried at the church?’

  ‘Towards the front beside the path as you come off the lane. I don’t think she ever came to terms with what happened, poor woman. She put flowers on the children’s graves, very regular about it she was. Richard Denning does that for her now, keeps them tidy.’

  She’s silent, her eyes focused on the row of faded tea towels drying on the stove rail. I prod one last time.

  ‘Did her husband die after the children?’

  ‘Less than a year later.’ She looks at me across the kitchen. ‘I wouldn’t let it worry you, love. All ancient history now.’

  She pushes a smile onto her face, not her usual easy expression. ‘I’ve not made this cake recipe before. Why don’t we try a slice with a hot cup of tea. You look frozen half to death.’

  I return her smile, she moves from the stove and heads for the kettle. I pick up Mrs Havers’ letter and read it again.

  ‘I’ve often thought it strange she didn’t bury her husband with the children.’ Mrs Cooper puts on the kettle, picks up the teapot and looks across the kitchen at me. ‘Something not right about that, I’d say, wouldn’t you, Kate?’

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday, 12th October

  I’ve never known a storm like this one. Wind whistles between door frames and rattles the old sash-windows. Our London terrace was sheltered on all sides by other buildings. Here the house stands alone. The clicks and pings from the old Bakelite phone chatter away in the hall all of their own accord, the sound amplified in the high empty space of the stairwell. Tom presses close as we sit on Mum’s sofa in the kitchen, Riley on his lap.

  ‘It’s only the wind rocking the phone lines, Tom,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ says my son in a quiet little voice.

  ‘She does, don’t you Mummy? There aren’t any aliens. You’re just being a baby, Tom.’

  ‘That’s enough, Sophie. Finish your homework. Daddy’ll call soon then I’ll unplug the phone.’

  I picked up the handset earlier, the sounds echoing down the line were surreal, not helped by the peculiar amplification.

  ‘Should you give Riley something to eat before we head up to bed, Tom?’ We bought a ton of dog stuff after school, all necessary according to the twins.

  ‘Dogs need instruction manuals, don’t they? Like TVs have,’ says Sophie as she sits with her back to the stove. The twins both had homework this evening. Tom’s was finished in under ten minutes so he could play with Riley. Sophie still pores over hers, looping her letters perfectly and sprinkling illustrations throughout.

  ‘Can we take Riley upstairs?’ asks Tom as he takes a can of dog food from me.

  ‘His basket is here and he’ll be warm by the fire. No dogs upstairs,’ I say. The twins exchange a glance, Sophie pulls a face but neither pushes their luck any further.

  ‘If you get ready for bed, no messing about, I’ll bank the stove and come up too.’

  Sophie’s happy in her room reading in the rosy glow of her lava lamp. Tom’s impossible to settle. I leave him tucked up with Blue Duck who had been abandoned on the bookcase for months back in London.

  The gale gusts down the chimney spilling cold air across the bedroom floor. I jump into the thickest pair of pyjamas I own and get into bed. With no Mark and no hot water bottle the sheets are so cold they feel damp. Mark hasn’t called. It’s getting late, maybe he’s engrossed in some prep for tomorrow. I pick up my sketchbook, footsteps patter along the landing, Tom peeps around the doorframe. Tearfully, clutching Blue Duck to his chest, he steps into the room.

  ‘Can I sleep in your bed, Mummy?’

  I pull back the corner of my duvet, Tom springs onto the bed and burrows down beside me sprawling an arm and skinny leg across my belly. I’m glad of his warmth. I return to the sketch pad, turning through pages of half-drawn scenes. I’d binned the portrait of the woman, but I see her, every line and pencil stroke as if the pages are full of her.

  I glance up, aware of someone watching me.

  ‘For goodness’ sakes! You scared me half to death sneaking about like that.’

  My daughter stands at the end of my bed, spots her brother’s tousled sleeping head and tunnels her way under my duvet.

  Sophie’s arm is thrown across my chest, her hot sticky hand rests on my neck, her nose pressed to the side of my head. I can barely hear her snuffled snoring above the howling gale. Attempts at drawing failed, the sketch pad lies on the duvet beside my sleeping daughter. I’m too alert to the complaining, groaning house, the storm driving it crazy, and, beneath the commotion of the storm, it’s there, unmistakably there. The knocking answers each gusting surge of wind and rain like an eerie echo.

  But another sound slides under the noise of the gale. Something I haven’t heard before. Something I can’t quite place. A tap tap, creak, a floorboard underfoot? The bedroom door is ajar, I can’t tear my eyes away from the narrow slice of landing. The house is empty, the attic and office closed and the spare room locked, but it bothers me. Impossible to ignore. I strain my ears, listening, waiting, there’s no way of getting off to sleep. I could take a sleeping tablet, smother everything for the next eight hours.

  2:36am

  Too risky, if I don’t wake to the alarm the twins will be late for school again. And I don’t want the pills. I don’t want to take a backwards step. I glance at the alarm clock hoping time has leapt forward to morning when the world will seem a far more rational place.

  2:38am.

  My mobile lies beside the alarm clock. No signal. If anything happens, the landline in the hall, its muffled and crackling old line, is my only option. Mark will be asleep at this hour anyway. Why did he say he’d call then not bother? Was everything alright? I don’t let my mind dwell on the various possibilities, they’ll turn into monsters at this time in the morning.

  Beside my mobile is our shiny new torch. I dump the sketch pad on the floor, tuck Sophie’s arm under the duvet and sit up, swing my feet onto the floorboards. I’ll take a look, check there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll drop off to sleep if I can put my mind to rest. Cold air smothers my bare feet. I push on my old pumps and pick up the torch.

  The landing is dark, just a hazy glimmer of coloured light seeping along the runner from the twins’ rooms. I glance back at my bed, the children both asleep, Tom’s face buried in Blue Duck’s sagging stomach. Wind gusts another shower of grit down the chimney, it spills like sand through the empty grate and across the green hearth tiles. I can’t stand here, I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t freeze to death first. I grab the small brass knob and pull the door towards me.

  The torch’s white beam cuts through the black space, picks out the stair spindles, the deep chips in the yellowing paint like pockmarks in diseased skin. I step onto the landing. To my left are the twins’ rooms, the family bathroom and office. I closed the office door yesterday. Now though, it’s ajar. Its hinges creek, swaying back and forth in the draught. The attic door is locked, nothing’s getting out of there in a hurry. I turn the torch beam towards the spare room. Thank goodness it’s closed.

  I lean over the bannister and peer into the well of the hall. Only buffeting wind and the occasional tring of the phone. I strain my ears and wait. Scratching, urgent and sharp, interspersed with pitiful whining. I hope Riley’s just woken and heard me moving around, not been d
istressed since we came upstairs hours ago. Somewhere, sometime, I’ve read or maybe someone told me, dogs often fear a storm, hate the thunder and lightning. I knew the bloody dog would be down to me.

  I head towards the top of the stairs. The torch beam catches the blackened bulb hanging like a dead thing, beyond it, the locked door of the spare room. At least the bulb won’t spook me with its buzzing threat of random darkness. The odd odour of stale cigarettes is here, faint but indelible. The cold deepens, no longer draughts nipping at my ankles but a stillness as though the air has become too heavy to move, solidified, it folds around me.

  The whole building shudders as the storm tightens its grip and shakes it. The force of the wind drops and eddies away. Twice, more loudly than before, the knocking.

  Riley whimpers and scratches at the kitchen door. I need to check the office and shut the door, deaden the knocking. I ignore the dog and head back along the landing. The twins’ rooms are a tumble of duvets, yesterday’s clothes heaped on chairs, and in Tom’s case, piled on the precise spot where he changed into his pyjamas. An image of the attic with the children’s clothes on the floor invades my mind. Not a good place to go right now. Decades ago, as Mark says. Nothing to do with our family.

  I stand, torch in hand, facing the office door waiting for the next huge howl of wind. My chest’s contracting, breathe. I stare at the grey layers of dust on top of the decorative moulding panels. Has the storm begun to blow over? The house groans, shifts and settles, the wind sinks away. One sharp knock, like a single strike of a fist on wood. It’s entirely random. I stand still, several seconds stretch out like minutes. I put out my hand and push the door.

  I keep the torch beam trained on the slowly widening gap as the door swings open. Like a searchlight over a black ocean, it picks out Sophie’s pink beanbag, dented from when Mark sat there working at the weekend. Two towers of books lean against the wall, large reference works, The Criminal Procedure Rules, paperbacks for the charity shop. I remain on the landing runner, push the door fully open and flash the torch around the room, stacks of papers, an angle lamp, bent and twisted like an old man in the alcove beside the chimney breast. The air is cold, thick and damp, an acrid smell of soot washed out onto the hearth. The fireplace shares the same run of chimney, the same sour odour, as the attic. Maybe a roaring fire is all that’s needed to dry out the flue.