Haverscroft

by S. A. Harris

  The churchyard is empty. I find the children’s grave easily with Shirley’s directions. A single polished white marble headstone, boys aged seven and nine years with identical dates of death. In loving memory but no details of their parents, just the children’s names and ages and an urn of freshly arranged mauve Michaelmas daisies and ruby-red dahlias. I take a photo on my mobile and move to a larger grave behind the children’s. The name in gold letters, carved into black marble, catches my attention. Helena Rachel Havers, wife of Edward, mother of Frederick. I take a second photo. I can follow up dates of birth and death when I get internet access, maybe head over to the cafe in the village before I pick up the twins this evening. The more facts I have before I meet Mrs Havers tomorrow the better. Old fashioned crimson roses fill a wide china bowl sunk into the ground at the foot of the head stone. I kneel beside the grave, reach out and touch a petal, soft as velvet, its heady scent threads the damp air.

  ‘Hello, there!’

  I practically jump out of my skin and drop the mobile as I stand. A thickset man, black biker leathers and Doc Martins, strides towards me between gravestones. His warm friendly grin has me smile back although I’m sure we’ve never met.

  ‘Alan Wynn. Kate Keeling, isn’t it?’

  He holds out a very square hand, as warm as toast as I shake it.

  ‘I’m the reverend here. Sorry we haven’t met sooner. I missed you when I dropped by Haverscroft.’

  ‘Shirley Cooper mentioned you called.’

  He grins again, perhaps he’s aware Shirley doesn’t quite approve of him. I pick up my mobile.

  ‘She tells me you’ve had a real problem at the house. Is there much damage?’

  I nod. ‘George Cooper’s rigged up something temporary so we’re water tight, but it’s good to get out. I’m looking for the Havers family graves.’ I turn back to Helena’s headstone. ‘She was a very young woman when she died.’

  ‘I understand there’s quite a family history. The house is the subject of many fascinating local legends and tall tales, like so many large country piles. I’ve only been here just over three years so I don’t know much myself. It takes a while to fit in.’ He smiles again.

  The twins spoke of the carrot-topped vicar who makes them laugh in assembly. I wonder what his regular congregation make of him.

  ‘The registers are here: births, marriages and deaths. You’re very welcome to take a look.’

  ‘Great, thanks. Do you know Mrs Havers?’

  ‘A little. She attends an occasional Sunday morning service,’ he says, turning back towards the gravel path. ‘May I show you the church? The tower’s Saxon in origin, and parts of the building date from then too. All rather fascinating.’

  Alan steps past me into the church, one arm held out to lead me into the building. The interior is gloomy to the point of darkness until my eyes adjust to the light filtering through stained glass windows. It smells of damp stone, polish and dying flowers. At the end of the dozen or so oak pews, posies of cream lilies and pink carnations sag in shiny white ribbons.

  ‘So, what do you think of St Mary’s?’

  Shafts of light dapple spots of colour across peeling whitewash along the wall to my left. The roof soars away from me, the black rafters like thick ribs above our heads.

  ‘It’s exactly as I imagine a small village church,’ I say. ‘Very tranquil.’

  ‘I’m here most afternoons so you can come and go as you please. No one will disturb you.’

  He’s quite serious, his pale eyes rather piercing. I look away, glance around the church. What has he heard about the family that moved into Haverscroft? Shirley’s unlikely to spare the details.

  ‘You might find the Roll of Honour over here interesting.’

  I follow him along the aisle until he stops and looks up at a large wooden plaque. The names, rank and ages of local men fallen in combat over the last century are painted in black and arranged in columns filling the space.

  ‘I asked the WI ladies what they knew about the war dead. Lots of intriguing and poignant tales, as you might imagine. Three Havers brothers fought in the Second World War. Only the youngest, Edward, came home.’

  ‘Mrs Havers’ husband?’ I ask.

  He nods. ‘Edward got lucky. He was injured; something to do with his ankle so got sent home.’ He glances at his wristwatch. ‘All the registers are in the vestry,’ he says, moving towards the area behind the altar. ‘They must remain in the church, but you can inspect them in your own time.’

  He opens a door set flush in the wall revealing a small cluttered room.

  ‘Paperwork’s not a strong point as you’ll see,’ he says, stepping towards a table in one corner. He shuffles papers into a pile. ‘These are the registers going back about a century and a half.’

  Thick black hardback books remind me of Helena’s journal.

  ‘We found some old documents in the attic.’ I explain about the metal box, the journal, the entries I’d read.

  ‘Sounds like post-traumatic stress, doesn’t it? So many suffered in silence back then. Speaking out wasn’t acceptable in polite society: stiff upper lip and all that.’

  ‘I’ll show them to Mrs Havers, I’m visiting her tomorrow. Maybe she’ll speak about it.’

  ‘Richard Denning might be worth a word.’ Alan looks at me and smiles. ‘He’s an introverted fellow, but once you get him started he’s fascinating. Trained as a doctor apparently, but was seriously ill years ago. He had a bit of a breakdown, I think.’

  I remember Shirley saying something about Richard Denning being ill, not speaking of it. I had not realised what had been wrong, perhaps I, of all people, should have guessed.

  ‘Never judge a book by its cover, so they say. We all have a past, don’t we? I’m sure he’s no different from the rest of us. He looks after the churchyard beautifully. Always flowers on the children’s grave and roses on Helena’s.’

  I stare at Alan.

  ‘Is everything, alright?’ he says, stepping towards me and lightly touching my elbow. Perhaps he thinks I’ll faint or throw a fit. I’m sure he’ll have heard something about how I’ve been lately.

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ I say as I gather my thoughts. I probably have such a reputation that I’m sure a bit more nonsense can’t do any harm. Alan’s nodding. Looking at me. Waiting.

  ‘Is it possible, after someone dies, something of their spirit remains?’

  ‘Ghosts?’ he says, frowning slightly.

  I nod, grateful he’s said it out loud rather than me.

  ‘The Church doesn’t really recognise them as such. Why?’

  ‘It sounds insane and it’s certainly something I can’t explain.’

  ‘At Haverscroft?’

  I nod. ‘If it was only me, but it isn’t.’ I tell him about Shirley not going upstairs and get the impression this isn’t anything he hasn’t heard before. Mr Whittle too, I suspect. About Sophie. Knocking sounds, doors slamming. The odd smells. The voices.

  ‘I must seem quite mad!’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Not at all. So much is unexplained or not understood. Is it why you want to look into Haverscroft’s history?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘Haverscroft has a certain reputation. Many old places do, don’t they? Shirley and the WI crowd have much to say, as you can imagine.’

  We turn to leave the vestry.

  ‘I keep an open mind on these things. Once you’ve got used to the place, if you still feel there’s a problem we can speak again, if it helps.’

  I’m so glad he hasn’t instantly poured cold water on the whole idea. Raised angry voices ring through the cold air from outside. Both Alan and I look towards the church door. Two male voices, from what I can make out, shouting.

  ‘Excuse me, Kate,’ says Alan. He hurries along the aisle, Riley scampering hot on his heels. T
he gardener strides in carrying a black bucket stuffed full of lilies. The man’s lips are set in a hard, straight line, a deep frown pulls thick grey eyebrows together. He dumps the bucket down with a thunk on the flags. Alan stops as they meet. They exchange a few quick words, their voices low, I can’t hear what they say. Winter sunlight streaming through the doorway dims as a figure stops on the threshold of the church.

  ‘Alan, there you are,’ says Oliver Lyle. ‘Sorry to rush you but I’m due back at the office. Can we make it quick?’

  Alan glances back at me, pulls an apologetic smile and hurries out. The church falls silent. Richard Denning stares after them for a moment before turning towards me. The churning sets up in the pit of my stomach. There’s no logical reason to be nervous of this man.

  ‘Everything alright at the house?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks. I’m looking at the registers.’

  I take a breath and steady my nerves. I don’t have to explain why I’m here.

  ‘There is one thing, though,’ I say. ‘We bought some posts and rope at the weekend to fence off the pond. I’d like them in before the twins spend any time in the garden. I can’t imagine my husband ever getting round to it. Is it something you might do?’

  He stares at me. A long, silent, unsettling gaze. I’ve no clue what he’s thinking.

  ‘You’ve been speaking to Shirley?’ He shakes his head, walks towards the door raising his hand. ‘Consider it done,’ he says and vanishes into the churchyard.

  The builder’s van is gone by the time Riley and I get back to Haverscroft, only ladders and scaffolding poles are stacked beside an over-stuffed skip. I’ll have some peace and quiet to plot out the Havers’ family tree after lunch. I drop my keys into the glass bowl. Mark’s laptop is here. I’m not a wife who snoops. I’ve never gone through pockets, his phone or email as some wives do. I’ve always trusted my husband.

  I take the laptop into the morning room, clear a space on the pasting table and open the lid. The screen flashes, the cursor blinks for a password. I’ve never used his work-laptop and have no clue what the password might be. I try a couple I know Mark used in the past at home: an old case, his father’s middle name. Nothing works. The curser blinks, blinks, blinks. Sophie-belle. Mark’s pet name for our daughter when she was a baby.

  The screen opens to an email, the last thing Mark read. The solicitor’s name is familiar, Mark would go to her, wouldn’t he? I’ve often remarked she’s the best divorce lawyer I know. My cheeks flood with heat, a pulsing in my temple makes it hard to concentrate. Her email was sent in May, so two, no, three months after my breakdown, a month before we found Haverscroft. I pull away from the pasting table and stare at the screen unable to drag my eyes from the black text. Does Mark want me to see this? Has he left it open deliberately? I don’t think so. I’m sure leaving the laptop here was a genuine oversight. So why is he looking at this right now? I don’t want to read it, but I have no choice. I have to try and make sense of what it might mean for me and the children.

  The first part is all about the financials: not a good time for Mark to separate while I’m ill and not working. Uncertain if he’d be stuck with high and long-term maintenance payments for me as well as the twins. I’m not interested in the money.

  The heading, ‘Children’s Future Residence’, freezes the blood in my veins. My mental capacity, ability to care safely or at all for the twins, is discussed in detail. A good time to move forward with an application for the children to live with their father. The children’s welfare is paramount. It ends with advice to think all options through fully, then, if he wanted to move things forward, he should contact her. My mouth is dry, my heart hammering against my chest. Has Mark contacted the solicitor again? And if he has, what has he decided to do? Our family, the twins are my world, I’m nothing without them. I’ve moved to this horrible place in the hope we’ll all be okay, but if Mark is looking at this now, is he making plans to leave and take the children from me?

  I scream and lash out, kick the metal bucket full of wallpaper paste on the floor beside me. It skims across the floor and crashes against the fireplace. Glue sprays out, splashes up the wall and floor. The bucket rolls on its side, the last of the paste leaking across the hearth tiles.

  I stand motionless, my heart thumping my ribs, not sure what to do with myself. Riley trots in from the kitchen and stops in the doorway, his eyes on my face. He must wonder what an earth is going on.

  The crack slices through the silence, sharp, clear and unmistakably from the empty room upstairs. Riley shoots back into the hall and stops at the foot of the stairs, a low rumbling growl in his throat. His tufty coat stands on end, his ears flattened against his head. I stare up at the ceiling, the knocking comes again, a sharp rapping sound.

  I run into the hall and race up the stairs before I have time to consider what I’m doing, before I lose my nerve. I stop at the top of the flight. The landing is gloomy and cold, all the doors to the bedrooms, office and bathroom, closed.

  The torch is beside my feet. I snatch it up, click it on and flash the beam along the landing. Riley is barking non-stop at the base of the stairs. The spare room is locked and bolted. The horrible smell that got skipped along with the carpet is back, the chemical scent growing stronger by the second. I realise what the sweet smell reminds me of. My hands shake so violently the torch beam shivers across grey, filthy walls.

  To my right, on the periphery of my vision, there’s a movement, something coming towards me. George Cooper, a man, striding along the landing, but there’s nothing, just the dim corridor. No one here. The torch light flickers, and flickers and dies in my hand. A whispering voice, laughing, an icy breath against my cheek. I’m screaming, the torch hitting the floor.

  Riley howls and runs into the kitchen.

  Silence.

  The strange sensation, the oppressive atmosphere, is gone. Just a dark and empty landing, a fading sense of the stale smell dissipating into cold air. Riley is barking, barking, barking in the kitchen. Not until Alan Wynn spoke of Helena’s grave, of the care Richard Denning takes of it, had I been able to place it. That sweet sickly smell, the chemical scent of rotting roses.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday, 21st October

  I stare through the windscreen at Fairfield House, the car growing colder, the solicitor’s email spooling in my head. Since yesterday I’ve thought of nothing but the email and the strange experience on the landing. Even the twins noticed my distraction. I can barely think straight after the worst night’s sleep in ages. I’m still undecided what to say to Mark about any of it. A muddy four-wheel-drive moves in my wing mirror, crosses behind me and pulls into a bay a few cars from mine. Mr Whittle’s bulky frame rolls out of the vehicle.

  I cram my mobile, sketch pad and Helena’s journal into my bag and hurry out of the car. The estate agent spots me and waves as I head across the tarmac towards him. He smooths a crumpled green-check jacket over his expansive belly, straightens the glasses perched on his head and beams his broad smile in my direction; happy sells houses.

  ‘Not here to visit Mrs Havers?’

  I grin at the astonishment on Mr Whittle’s face.

  ‘Well, I never! You don’t have to, you know,’ he says, lowering his voice and leaning a little towards me. ‘She can’t sue if you don’t.’

  I laugh as we turn towards a ramp running from the carpark to Fairfield’s central white front door.

  ‘I thought she might have interesting stories about the house, you know, its history.’

  Mr Whittle studies my face while I’m speaking. I smile back at him.

  ‘Come in then. I’m here to see my aunt. I’ll introduce you to Matron first.’

  I follow Mr Whittle up the ramp and into a brightly lit world of beige. Bland prints of local scenes and seascapes blur past along a corridor smelling of bleach and air freshener. We pass a communal lounge, a l
arge television blaring daytime soaps at no one. Doors stand open at regular intervals, nameplates reminding me of school: Mr Henshaw, Mrs Simpson, but no Mrs Havers. The small, not-so-private lives of the residents, defined by patterns on quilts and curtains.

  ‘How does someone live here after Haverscroft?’ Mr Whittle sends me a side-on glance as I speak. ‘Maybe dementia is a blessing of sorts, if it blurs the edges.’ His answering smile is a watery thing.

  A large conservatory is at the end of the corridor, the matron, judging by her pressed cotton uniform, stands in the doorway. She has a brief, friendly exchange with Mr Whittle.

  ‘Mrs Havers is in the conservatory,’ Matron says to me with a curt nod. ‘I’ll leave Mr Whittle to introduce you as I’m engaged at present. I’m along here in my office if you need assistance.’

  I’d like to ask what assistance might be needed, but Mr Whittle is heading into the conservatory so I follow. Several blinds are pulled, the light bright but diffused. Upright sage-green vinyl armchairs are here and there, some pulled together, others turned to the glass to give a view outside. Several people, sunk deep in their seats, snooze, chins on chests, a group in one corner play cards. The room is stifling, and save for the clack of our shoes on the floor tiles, hushed.

  We cross the room to a lady with pure white hair set formally in elegant neat curls. She wears a twinset, pale blue skirt and jacket, a large brooch pinned just below a short lapel. The brooch is some sort of claw, a rabbit’s foot possibly, its ankle encased in a silver cuff.