by S. A. Harris
Mr Whittle stops beside her. The old lady’s hands, liver-spotted and wrinkled, rest on the curved handle of a dark-wood walking stick, a cream leather handbag on the floor at her feet. I thought she looked out at a rectangle of grass, but as I stop and stand beside the estate agent, I see her eyes are closed. Mr Whittle hesitates and glances at me. He leans a little towards her.
‘Mrs Havers?’
He lowers the glasses sitting atop his domed head and perches them on the end of his nose, peers at the old lady and turns to me again, eyebrows raised. I shrug and smile, hoping the estate agent doesn’t notice the bubble of mirth rising in my throat.
‘Mrs Havers? I’ve bought Mrs Keeling to see you.’
Rich brown eyes snap open and glare at Mr Whittle. He straightens, steps backwards and smiles, gesturing towards where I stand.
‘This is Mrs Keeling, from London, you know. She moved into Haverscroft with her family recently, if you remember?’ Mr Whittle’s tone is bright and stilted, his wide smile unconvincing.
The old lady ignores me and continues to stare in a hostile manner at Mr Whittle.
‘And how is the house? I hope you have kept it secure. I don’t want squatters getting in or thieves stripping out the fireplaces. The kitchen stove needs lighting in this weather, it keeps the damp out. Have you lit the stove?’
Her voice would be at home in an old black and white movie. Clipped, a little shrill, the woman’s contempt towards the estate agent is unmistakable. Mr Whittle ignores this line of enquiry and pulls one of the green vinyl armchairs closer to Mrs Havers. The chair legs squeal on the tiles, residents stir and stare in our direction.
‘You wanted to meet the people who bought Haverscroft. This is Mrs Keeling. She’s come to visit.’
Mr Whittle speaks a fraction too loudly, indicates for me to sit on the chair pulled close to Mrs Havers as he backs towards the door at the far side of the conservatory.
‘I’ll leave you to chat, ladies!’
He darts off between armchairs as I settle in front of Mrs Havers.
‘Can’t stand the man!’ she says to no one in particular. She seems to be focusing on the array of shrivelled cacti arranged on the windowsill beside her, dust caught between their spines, the plants look abandoned. I’m hoping to find out why she is so keen for me to visit. I’m not sure she really knows who I am.
‘You have a beautiful home, Mrs Havers.’
We sit in silence as the old lady doesn’t seem to have heard me, perhaps she is deaf. I think it better not to mention the roof and damage to the house as I glance around the room. No staff about to help, Mr Whittle long gone. What do I say? Does she suffer from dementia? Her behaviour suggests she might. I shift in my seat, the vinyl groaning. I smile, she looks away. I follow her gaze and see she’s not looking at the cacti, instead at a row of tea roses growing along the outside of the conservatory, yellowing leaves peep above the window sill.
‘Can’t stand the man. Don’t like him, don’t trust him.’
She studies my muddy black ankle boots, jeans and fingernails rimmed with paint. The navy double-breasted cashmere coat Mark bought me for Christmas might pass muster.
‘You received my letters.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
She lifts the walking stick a little and waves it towards the window.
‘No point growing them if they’re not looked after. The flies sucked the life out of them. They must be sprayed early in the season. They always are at Haverscroft. Keeps the black spot off too. My man sees to it every year without fail.’
‘Richard Denning was pruning some the other day,’ I say, hoping this comment sounds vaguely on track.
‘He knows what they need. I told the man here, but he doesn’t listen to me, doesn’t care a jot. Disfiguring you know, the fly.’
She suddenly turns her face from the window towards me and leans forward on her stick as though to impart a secret. I try not to look startled, not to lean back into my chair.
‘I never liked them you know, the roses. I preferred the wisteria and the dahlias. They cut wonderfully for the house.’
Her skin is perfectly powdered, her perfume something I don’t recognise, perhaps Lily of the Valley, very floral. She’s of another age when manners were all-important and time ran more slowly. I see her, tucked up with blankets, tea and muffins, in front of the grate in the morning room.
She lifts her cream bag onto her knees and opens its gold clasp with a sharp click. The bag is stuffed, springs open, bulges with bundles of papers, letters and documents sectioned into coloured elastic bands. It reminds me of Helena’s box. Mrs Havers pulls a bundle out, rests it in her lap and delves deeper into the bag.
‘One has to keep one’s life in one’s bag in a place like this. Nothing is private nor safe from snooping staff, cleaners or, indeed, Matron.’
She pulls a crisp, blue handkerchief free, dabs her upper lip. She doesn’t look at me as she speaks and pushes the handkerchief back into the bag.
‘You should understand about the attic. You must think it ghastly, ghoulish even.’
I watch her replace the bundle of papers into the bag, click it shut and lower it to rest again at her feet.
‘I think you will understand; some would not and may think it quite mad. Perhaps it has turned me mad. Whittle and Lyle say so, I believe. They have so little regard for one’s reputation.’
She twists a ring, a dark stone surrounded by diamonds, a wedding band behind it. ‘Reputation is everything, is it not? I would urge you to guard it well, Mrs Keeling.’
‘Call me Kate, everyone does.’
She studies my face, seems unaware of my discomfort at her long and open stare.
‘Events have rather overtaken us, have they not? The damage to the house has rendered the attic quite uninhabitable’
‘We managed to save a few things –’
She raises her hand, diamonds flash.
‘Had there been a relic, keepsakes to bring me comfort, I would have brought them with me when I left Haverscroft.’ Her eyes are dark, unfathomable. ‘As a mother, you will know there can be no such comfort.’
I nod, understand perfectly.
‘One blames oneself.’
I know too few details to comment. The last thing I want is to make a glib and meaningless statement. I watch her brown eyes as a tea trolley rattles in from the corridor.
‘You are wondering, what happened to my children.’
Her voice is firm, a statement not a question.
‘It was a fine June day, a busy time in the garden, but the weather had been inclement the previous week and had quite beaten down the delphiniums. I had much to be getting on with but I could hear them playing in the loke, my boys, Andrew and Michael. Shrieks of laughter, other children from the village had been with them earlier. Then, of course, one hears the car, which was unusual back then. It rather caught my attention, the roar of an engine. The silence that followed never leaves me. Nothing ever fills it.’
She’s nodding as she speaks, the rhythm in time with her words, the ring, twisting.
‘But of course, you know all this. You have been making your enquiries.’
Accusation in her voice, naked displeasure. Shirley, Richard Denning, the Weldon grapevine will have fed her all the information she might want and more.
‘You have my late sister’s box and journal.’
Her eyes focus on my bag. The journal pokes out from the top of it, too big to pull the zip across.
‘Journals ought to be private things.’
Shirley will have told her I’ve read the journal and looked at the drawings, the photos. A petite woman in a beige uniform rattles the tea trolley further into the room and stops beside a group of card players.
‘There is no adequate excuse to poke about in another’s private affairs. It’s qui
te intolerable.’ She looks at the journal, then at me. ‘Are one’s own thoughts not entirely one’s own?’
‘There are things at Haverscroft that I don’t understand.’
I can’t meet her gaze. It had never occurred to me I might offend her reading the journal. I turn my head to follow the tea lady’s progress to a group nearer where we sit as I gather my thoughts. I try again.
‘When I found the journal I didn’t know who if belonged to, who Helena Havers was.’
She raises her hand again. ‘My sister, Helena, was older than me by several years. She cared for me like a second mother. I like to think she watches over my boys.’
She taps her stick, click, click, click on the tiles. I try to move the conversation on and smile as I speak.
‘I saw they’re buried near her, not with the Havers.’
‘Quite right. Quite right.’
The stick stills.
‘Not with their father, her husband.’
‘You don’t stop, do you, Mrs Keeling. As bad as that nosy fellow, Whittle.’
She leans forward a fraction, both hands a fist around her stick.
‘The family plot is ancient, full and overgrown. It floods in bad weather. It’s no place for her or my boys. Do not read things into other people’s misery that is not there. Shirley Cooper has much to answer for, I have no doubt.’
‘There’s something at Haverscroft that worries me. You’ll know what it is and why I’m here.’
We stare at one another, her gaze unflinching.
‘The room above the morning room: my daughter has heard things, and I have. Shirley refuses to go upstairs. She says you lived for many years on the ground floor.’
‘As you can see,’ she taps her swollen knee with her forefinger, ‘I have long suffered with arthritis. The attic became quite impossible for me, as did, later, the main staircase. By the time I came here the front steps were beyond me. One loses one’s independence as the years advance.’
She glances towards the rattling tea trolley. ‘Will you take tea? I’m afraid I can’t recommend it. Tasteless, milky stuff, but it’s surprising what one gets used to.’
‘No, thank you. My daughter called our dog Riley.’
I watch her face, but she remains impassive.
‘Is that the same name as the dog that lived there before?’
‘I’ve never owned a dog of that name,’ she says. Her sharp, snappy tone surprises me, it must show on my face as she continues. ‘Children can be fanciful, can they not? Is she at school? A boarder?’
‘Sorry, what do you mean?’
‘Will your children board at school? Some time away rids them of childish nonsense. There’s nothing at the house.’
‘The room above the morning room has a strange smell and the door sticks for no reason.’
‘Really, Mrs Keeling! You should consider a new-build.’
‘I’ve heard voices, in particular, a man’s when the room is entirely empty.’
Mrs Havers is silent, watching me, her lips pressed together her coral-pink lipstick a thin line. When she speaks her voice is so low I hardly catch her words above the murmur of conversations.
‘You have been unwell, I understand.’
Her simpering tone and humourless smile, infuriate me.
‘Who’s listening to gossip and jumping to conclusions now, Mrs Havers?’
She bangs her stick on the tiles, the crack ricochets across the room and kills the hum of conversation. The tea lady pauses, cup and saucer held out midway to its recipient.
‘There can be nothing at the house, Mrs Keeling. Nothing.’
She raises her stick, I hold up my hand, for an instant I think she will strike me. Instead, she waves it at the tea lady, another beige uniform and the matron strides in from the corridor. Mrs Havers rocks in her chair, back and forth, back and forth. The stick cracks on the tiles. She’s trying to stand. I get to my feet and put out my hand to help her, she slaps it aside.
‘Mrs Keeling does not wish for tea.’
Mrs Havers looks at me as she speaks to the tea lady hovering at my elbow.
‘Mrs Keeling is leaving.’
Chapter 17
Tuesday, 26th October
‘Let’s try and call Dad before we head home. I’m not sure where he is today, but a voicemail will be better than nothing.’
We walk to the turn in the high street and sit on the bench outside the solicitor’s office. Sophie dials Mark’s number. I expect her to splutter a message to voicemail so I’m surprised when Mark answers and has time to talk.
The twins tell him about half-term, the rowdy Halloween morning at the church hall, Alan Wynn’s plans to trick-or-treat, the new vegetable patch in Haverscroft’s rear garden. They couldn’t have made it sound more idyllic if they’d tried. I watch Mr Lyle talking at Mr Whittle on the pavement opposite as the twins chatter on. The estate agent pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket and pats his brow. He glances around the busy street, takes a step back from Lyle.
‘Sounds like fun,’ Mark says, when the mobile eventually gets to me.
‘This morning’s been great: Halloween stuff in the church hall and kids their own age.’
Last weekend was good, the morning room finished, a fire lit, no weirdness in the house. We’ve all settled down. I haven’t mentioned the solicitor’s email. After a string of sleepless nights I decided to let it ride for now. It’s months old, why would Mark move to Weldon if he was thinking of divorcing me? If he knows I’ve seen the email he hasn’t mentioned it. All I can do is carry on and hope things work out.
‘You, okay?’
Always the same questions: Am I alright? Am I coping? At least no question about taking the medication.
‘Just fine. The weather’s so warm in the middle of the day we’re picnicking in the back garden for lunch, then finishing the twins’ veggie patches if we get time. It’s getting dark early now.’
Mr Lyle crosses the road, dashing behind an estate car as it crawls up the high street. Tall and thin, his body is all sharp angles, his dark suit ill-fitting. He sees the three of us sitting on the bench as he steps up onto the pavement, no glimmer of recognition in his hollow features. Mr Whittle wipes his brow and stuffs the handkerchief into this pocket. He’s staring across the road, I raise my hand, but he turns away and hurries off along the street.
‘Two things: the phone company are coming on Tuesday morning to fix the landline and sort out an internet connection. Can you be home?’ Mark asks.
‘You bet I can!’
He’s laughing, his easy low chuckle.
‘And the second?’
‘My trial’s gone short so I’ll be back Thursday evening. We can go out somewhere, take the kids to the coast maybe on Friday.’
‘Great idea!’ He’ll be working too, immersed in the Southampton case, but at least he’ll be here. He’s making an effort. I’m more than willing to reciprocate.
‘I’ll be back around seven with a bottle of wine and reinforcements.’
We turn off the high street into the lane. Sophie holds my hand, hers tacky from too many sweets. Tom strides ahead whipping the weeds in the verge with a stick, Riley springing around his ankles and knees. Mark was right about the dog, is he right about Haverscroft, all just moving-in jitters? If he is, perhaps he’s right when he says Mrs Havers can’t be believed, that she’s just a demented old lady. Even Shirley seems better. But my unease hasn’t completely dissolved. I’m reluctant to even raise the subject with Sophie, but I need to be sure.
‘Mummy?’
Sophie’s tugging my arm and staring up at me, her eyes searching my face.
‘Are you listening, Mummy? They’ve gone away, haven’t they? That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Who’s gone?’
‘The shouty man and lady. And the do
g, cos I haven’t heard them, have you? It will be okay now, won’t it?’
I squeeze Sophie’s hand as we walk past the church. She’s looking up at me, her eyes huge in her face. Funny how we’ve been thinking about the same thing.
‘So you won’t be ill again and we won’t have Nanna Jen make us eat vegetables.’
I laugh.
‘I won’t be ill and we’ll only eat Mrs Cooper’s cakes from now on. Will that be okay?’
Sophie smiles and nods.
‘If you get the picnic rugs out you might find the water guns tucked behind the lawn mower,’ I say, squeezing her hand again. ‘I’ll fill some rolls for lunch.’
Sophie drops my hand and runs to catch her brother.
‘Dad’s put the water guns in the shed! Come on!’
They hurtle down the drive, Tom shouting to his sister to keep up.
Haverscroft seems a little sorry for itself. Sunken into the hollow at the end of the driveway, it’s as if it’s hiding from view, a child sulking over a grazed knee. Green tarpaulin ripples across a section of roof. Once it’s repaired, peeling paintwork and wonky guttering all sorted, Haverscroft will be beautifully elegant against its backdrop of dark yew and beech. A dream home. Inexplicably though, as I reach the front steps, cold unease creeps into my chest and tightens, fixing itself there, exactly the same as that first day we came.
Sunday’s blazing fire has eased the front door, a sharp kick to the bottom corner has it closed at my back. Perhaps I’m finally getting the knack Shirley refers too. I’ll clear the ash from the grate, relay and light another fire tonight. It transformed the house at the weekend, chased the shadows away, the house lively and warm.
I head into the morning room, fresh paint and wood smoke. I open the French windows, a creaking crackle of new paint. Sunlight skitters through the trees, mellow rays streaming across the clipped lawn. The twins chase Riley around plastic white goal posts, a game of tag and water guns, Tom’s coat, Sophie’s gilet and hat litter the grass. I step across the terrace and lean my elbows on top of the wall. Sophie’s screams might shatter glass, but no one will hear. No need to hush them or worry about neighbours. So much space. We could be happy here.