Haverscroft

by S. A. Harris

  Riley barks and tears downstairs. Dust clogs my nose and throat. The various rooms still have their doors shut and with the office door closed, the wind, at least, is kept at bay. The thumps on the door are louder, slower and very deliberate. We hurry down the stairs.

  ‘Hold your horses, we’re on our way,’ Shirley says as she sprints across the short space of tiles to the front door.

  Mr Whittle stands in agitated fashion on the top step. He stares at Shirley covered from head to toe in dust, then past her to me. I must look the same. His thin hair’s caught in the wind, a wild ring of it surrounds the base of a bald dome. He holds his glasses and a check cap in his hands as if about to pray. He waves his cap towards the end of the house.

  ‘I saw the chimney collapse just now as I was coming from the loke. Are you alright? The whole damn thing’s disappeared through the roof there. Made a terrific sound.’

  ‘We’re alright, just abouts, aren’t we, Kate?’ Shirley turns to me as she speaks. I see the dazed shock in her expression as she coughs. ‘I should’ve read your leaves yesterday, love. Really I should!’

  I stare at Shirley, then the estate agent.

  ‘The room upstairs is covered in rubble,’ I tell him. ‘We don’t keep much in there, my husband uses it as an office. We thought the room would be quiet, away from the kitchen. He’ll have papers and books in there, and his laptop unless he’s taken it with him . . .’

  I’m rambling. They’re waiting for something sensible, constructive. The bottom of Mr Whittle’s coat flaps around his knees in the wind. My mind feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton wool.

  ‘Your roof, it’s got a bloody great hole in it.’ Whittle waves his cap. ‘Something temporary needs sorting out to keep the weather out. You don’t want the wind getting under the rest of it and ripping the whole lot off.’

  I must look alarmed, horrified; certainly, I feel it.

  ‘That’s your phone gone too.’ He turns and looks towards the side of the house. The gravel is strewn with twigs, leaves, bits of roof tile and broken bricks. Amid the mess lies a bundle of cables. The phone, presumably, and also the TV aerial, both had been attached to the chimney. The twins will be bored out of their minds.

  ‘How’s George fixed, Shirley? Would he be able to do something temporary?’

  ‘I can run and fetch him. I did suggest that dear, didn’t I?’

  They’re looking at me again. I nod.

  ‘I’ll take my bike, it’ll be quicker.’

  Mr Whittle stays to give me a hand, moves my car out of danger from falling debris. I stand in the lane and try my mobile. A weak signal, better than nothing. Mark doesn’t answer. I leave two voicemails, both sounding slightly crazed, a text bounces straight back unsent. There’s nothing he can do. I just need him to know. To say it will be all right, it can be fixed. Not to worry. On the off chance, I try his mother’s number, leave a message on Jennifer’s answerphone. Eventually, I call chambers.

  ‘He’s not here, Kate. Stephen’s been doing his nut most of the morning,’ says the clerk. ‘Let me double check for you, though.’

  I’m put on hold, classical music drones on. From here the roof looks frightening, a quarter vanished into a black hole at one end of the house. I’m soaked through and shivering. Finally, the music stops.

  ‘Kate, how are you?’

  Stephen’s deep voice. I’m so shocked I hear myself gasp. We had a strained exchange at the summer drinks do and haven’t spoken properly since that night. He doesn’t wait for a reply, which is good, I can’t immediately think of anything to say. I grip the mobile tight.

  ‘Bit of a crisis your end, I hear. London’s a mess too. Look, I know now’s not a great time, but we’ve no idea where Mark is. The Jenner fraud starts Friday so we’re up to our eyeballs here.’ I can imagine. The trial is listed for seven weeks with numerous witness for both sides. ‘I’ve nearly picked the phone up to speak with you a dozen times since the summer. Thought you might not appreciate hearing from me.’

  Why would Stephen call? We were clear, that time was the only time, a drunken mistake on both sides.

  ‘The thing is, what the fuck’s wrong with him, Kate? He’s been all over the place for months.’

  Silly but I feel so relieved. It’s not only me. Mark has been evasive, absent for periods of time he just doesn’t explain. I wasn’t imagining it all.

  ‘He lost his father, Stephen. I don’t think we’ve helped either.’

  Do I ask about Cassie? Or anyone else? A van bumps along the lane towards me.

  ‘Have a word with him, Kate, when he surfaces. He’s the best junior in chambers, but not if he isn’t here. I’ll let you go as you’re busy, but keep me posted.’

  I watch the van slow, put the mobile in my pocket. Where the hell’s Mark? Would Stephen say if he knew Mark played away?

  A man lowers the van window and pulls alongside me on the puddle-strewn lane. He looks towards Haverscroft, back at me.

  ‘Shirley’s explained what happened. I’m George Cooper, her brother-in-law. I’ve got some tarpaulins in the back that’ll do for you as a temporary fix.’

  I’m so grateful for his can-do-smile.

  ‘Shirley’s stayed in the village,’ he explains. ‘The school’s closing due to the weather. She says to let you know that she’s taking your two to the cafe while we sort things out here.’

  He bumps his van into Haverscroft’s drive and heads towards the house. A wave of exhaustion comes over me to such an extent I could happily lie down on the muddy wet verge and close my eyes.

  I pull out my phone and press the home-key. My hand is shaking, my fingers clumsy. No service. I could walk to the high street, maybe pick-up a signal. Who was I calling? I turn and walk along the lane towards the village, perhaps I’ll remember when I get there. The twins need collecting from school anyway. Mustn’t be late. Never late. I’m trembling, tears running down my face, dripping off my chin onto the phone screen streaking the bright colours. I’ve no idea why I’m crying, why I can’t stop.

  I must collect the twins. I’m shaking and shaking. It’s getting worse, I can’t stop it. Am I just cold? Where’s my coat, it won’t stop raining. Where did I leave my coat?

  I turn the bend in the lane, there they are, tucked under umbrellas. The twins. How are they here, not at school? Tom waves, so does the lady walking with them. Do I know her? I feel I should but there’s nothing. All those scarves.

  ‘Where’s Riley?’ Tom says running up to me.

  ‘Riley?’ I see from my son’s excited face I should know this. Know who this Riley is.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ I nod at the lady. A blue and cream scarf, wool, home-knitted. ‘You look terribly pale, so you do. It’ll be the shock, I reckon.’

  ‘Have you lost him, Mummy?’

  ‘Lost who, Tom?’

  He’s confusing me. Why is he confusing me? I look at my phone, the screen dark and wet, no signal. Why are the twins wearing those clothes? Where are their usual uniforms? Something’s not right.

  ‘You have, haven’t you?’ Tom stomps past me.

  ‘Don’t leave us, Mummy. You need to come back, remember?’

  Sophie holds my hand. Hers is warm. Mine is cold.

  ‘Do your counting and breathing thing.’

  I nod at my daughter.

  ‘We’ll look after you, Mummy, won’t we, Tom?’

  We start to walk towards my son. Why is he so furiously cross, his face red and crying? Breathe. Sophie’s right.

  Breathe.

  ‘What we need is a hot cup of tea.’ I look at the lady as she speaks. And remember. Remember Mrs Cooper. Scarves but no bangles today. Shirley Cooper.

  We walk through muddy puddles, Sophie and Shirley chatter away, their voices float above me, I can’t take in what they say. I need to get back. Catch up. Breathe
. Sophie looks so worried and I know it’s because of me. Breathe.

  ‘Here’s Haverscroft, love.’

  Across the lawn is a house, half the roof gone, a van parked to one side.

  ‘I remember this place,’ I say. ‘The house where the children died.’

  Shirley drops mittens and school bags onto the kitchen counter.

  ‘What a day it’s been!’ That falsely bright tone again, like Mark uses when things aren’t going too well. The twins stand in the doorway looking at me with worried expressions. I suck in a deep breath and count slowly in my head. I can get back. It would help to sit quietly and sketch for a bit. Probably look rather odd just now.

  ‘Riley,’ I say. ‘Riley’s in the morning room.’

  Recollection drips back. More will follow if I take my time.

  The twins turn on their heels and run across the hall. Excited voices and barking.

  ‘Sit down, love. I’ll make you a hot drink. You’re soaked to the skin.’

  Shirley’s pulling me towards Mum’s sofa, handing me a towel. ‘For your hair, love.’

  ‘I can’t keep doing this,’ I say.

  ‘No, love.’

  ‘You don’t understand what I mean.’

  It all tumbles out. About being ill for so long. ‘It’d been coming on for years, since Mum died really, so why I was ill just then, right before the Easter holidays . . .’ I shrug. ‘I’ve had months of counselling and more pills than I knew what to do with. Six months of it before we came here.’

  ‘If you don’t deal with these things, they get all bottled up and confused. I’ve still not come to terms with losing my Nick, not properly. That’s the thing, when you don’t expect to lose someone, when they go at the wrong time.’

  How can Shirley know that? Perhaps I’ve said something, let it slip.

  ‘Mum had been ill for years and years. She was first bad when I was about eight or nine years old. I’d just met Mark when she died.’

  I’d like to tell her right now, but the words gather, crowd, muddle in my head. I can’t do it, too much, too weird. She hands me a mug of tea and sits on the sofa beside me.

  ‘I often think,’ Shirley stops speaking, her lips press into a thin, straight line, ‘if I’d done a bit more, seen he’d not been himself for a day or two, perhaps things would have been different, you know what I mean, love?’

  I nod, watch the steam rise and curl from my mug.

  ‘You can’t dwell on thoughts like that, they trap you in the past so they do. What’s done’s done.’

  I nod again. ‘You’re right, Shirley. It’s just this creepy old house, being stuck here freezing to death and being left to manage on my own too much.’

  I stop. The bit about Mark, about Stephen, stays with me. I don’t want Shirley to think badly of me. ‘I’ve hung onto the idea we can move back to London if we don’t settle here. That’s not likely now, is it? We can’t sell Haverscroft in this state.’

  ‘Drink your tea, love.’

  We sit in silence. I drink the tea.

  ‘Why don’t you like going upstairs? I’m not imagining things, am I?’

  Shirley swallows, her eyes shift to the stove then back to me.

  ‘I need to know,’ I say in a low voice.

  She nods, purses her lips. ‘I can’t put my finger on it, love. All I can say is when I’ve been upstairs, on the landing, I feel something dreadful. Like a bad thing is going to happen.’ She looks me straight in the face. ‘How do you explain such a thing without sounding fanciful? It’s so bad it makes me feel right queer, I can tell you.’

  ‘How did Mrs Havers manage here all those years?’

  She smiles, raises dusty eyebrows. This morning, the crashing, the roof all seep back into my mind. ‘You’ll need to ask her. I don’t suppose you’ll get over there today now. She didn’t go upstairs on account of her knees and that’s true as far as it goes. But she didn’t go upstairs for years before then when she was as spritely as you and I are now. As far as I know, once her husband passed away, she lived downstairs. My aunt cleaned for her back then and she never went up those stairs.’

  Which explains the attic. I’d wondered why, if she couldn’t possibly part with any of her children’s things, she hadn’t gone there or kept the place clean.

  ‘Are the twins, okay?’ I ask. I just don’t know how odd my behaviour has been.

  ‘The bit about the children dying might be something they mention.’

  ‘Oh, god! As we turned into the drive!’ More memory drips back. ‘I put Riley in the morning room. I was worried he’d get the cakes in here,’ I say, rising to my feet.

  ‘You stay there, love. I’ll go and check what they’re up too. Drink your tea.’

  Shirley’s footsteps recede cross the hall. I sip the tea, my memory clicks into place. Mark. Stephen. No gaps as far as I can tell. I look at my phone. No signal.

  ‘Will the roof get mended, Mummy?’

  Tom’s face is pale, anxious as he stands in the doorway. I manage a nod, stand up and start to help him out of his coat, although both the twins have been perfectly capable of this activity for years. Be normal, don’t distress them. No more stupid comments. Breathe.

  ‘You’re very dirty, Mummy. Can we go and see the hole?’

  Sophie drops her coat to the floor, turning towards the hall. Sounds of hammering come from upstairs. I remember George Cooper is up there.

  ‘Shall we have some tea first, Sophie?’ Shirley’s concerned. Sophie glances between Shirley and me.

  ‘Let’s go and see how bad the damage is. We’ll have no peace until Sophie’s satisfied her curiosity, and the men might like something to drink.’

  I need to know what we’re dealing with. How bad things are, the unknown is far more frightening than reality. I’m also aware I’m in no fit state to take on my determined daughter, nor pass muster in conversation with Shirley, not yet.

  ‘You go up then, dear. I’ll sort out here, get the kettle on.’

  Still reluctant to go upstairs, but after this morning, who can blame her? We leave Shirley to the warmth of the kitchen and head up.

  Dust coats every surface, the stairs tracked with footprints. Mr Whittle was here at some point. Did he go home? The hammering stops as we near the top of the stairs.

  ‘It’s always too dark, Mummy.’ Tom’s cold hand slips into my mine, his fingers curl tightly.

  ‘I’ll ask if the builder can fix the light. I remembered to buy new torches this morning.’

  My memory’s definitely returning, but I can’t recall where I’ve left the torches. The kitchen, most likely. We reach the top of the stairs. I glance towards the spare bedroom, the door is closed.

  More hammering. Sophie stops in front of the office, Riley beside her. Men’s voices muffle behind the door.

  ‘Knock, Sophie. In case they’re just inside.’

  Sophie’s small fist doesn’t make much sound but the hammering stops and the door opens a crack. Mr Whittle peers out.

  ‘We’ve come to see the hole and Mrs Cooper wants to know if you want tea,’ Sophie says.

  Mr Whittle pulls the door a little wider. He’s covered in pale pink-grey dust. Just behind him, George Cooper smiles broadly showing nicotine teeth and a wave of dust-encrusted wrinkles ripple across his face.

  ‘Come in, young lady, but mind where you put your feet,’ says the estate agent.

  Sophie darts into the room behind Riley.

  ‘Careful, Sophie!’ I rush to catch her up, but George Cooper continues to smile whilst brushing dust from his short grey hair.

  ‘It’s perfectly safe, Mrs Keeling. I’ve checked out the floor, and as long as no one’s daft enough to climb this pile of rubble, everything’s sound for now.’

  The air in the room is hazy but clear enough to see just what’s happened.
>
  ‘I understand you’ve been bothered by some knocking noises.’ The builder grins, glances at Mr Whittle who shuffles his feet and brushes at his trousers.

  ‘Ghostly sounds, so I’ve been told.’ His grin widens. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to disappoint you. I hope you didn’t buy the place hoping for a spirit or two. There’s nothing going on here other than a split in your chimneystack. It’s probably been there for some time, years even. It would’ve made a good old spooky knocking when the wind picked up enough. It couldn’t hold out against this weather.’

  Dark green tarpaulin undulates and crackles with the wind where a chunk of roof should be. The room feels like it’s under a great mass of shifting water. Sophie’s on her hands and knees in the filth burrowing in the piles of debris. Tom presses close, holding my hand tightly as he peers at the room trying to see what his sister is doing.

  ‘Come out of that, Sophie!’ I tell her. ‘Before you hurt yourself!’

  My daughter’s narrow back is towards me, her body rigid. She stops scrabbling through the mound of tile and brick, is utterly motionless.

  ‘Sophie? Are you okay?’

  Something’s wrong. She’s on her feet screaming, fear palpable in the high-pitch screech. Tom jerks back towards the landing still clutching my hand as Riley growls and scratches amongst the smashed bricks and tiles. Sophie steps backwards, catches her heel against a broken chunk of brick and stumbles.

  ‘Steady, girl!’ says George Cooper, grabbing her arm. He pulls her upwards, breaking her fall. Sophie looks stunned, moves sideways towards me, keeping her eyes on the mound as the dog growls, his snout stuck in the pile of debris. She points to where Riley digs.

  ‘There’s a face in there!’

  Riley has his teeth sunk into something. He strains backwards, growling, shaking his head back and forth. Bricks shift and rubble trickles down the side of the heap. He drags something free, shakes it, dust exploding in all directions. The dog’s growl is deep in the back of his throat. Sophie presses into me, I put my arm around her shoulders. Riley flings the thing towards us. It lands between Sophie’s shoes and the builder’s boots. Both jump backwards as filth puffs up.