Haverscroft

by S. A. Harris

  ‘So what happened yesterday?’ Mark says. ‘How did Tom end up in the pond?’

  He’s pouring boiling water into mugs, stirring coffee, spoon clinking. Where do I start? How much do I tell him, what to leave out. I take a breath.

  ‘I don’t really know. I haven’t raised the subject with Sophie, she’s been too upset to talk about it. I thought it best to leave her and let her to settle down for a while. It was so awful, you can’t imagine, Mark.’ My voice trembles as I finish speaking.

  He puts one mug on the surface near where I stand and starts putting away the milk, the sugar, anything rather than look at me. I watch him and wait, but he says nothing.

  ‘Has Tom said anything?’ I say.

  The kitchen table has yesterday’s shopping, picnic things, my sketch pad, pens, Mark’s file. Beside them is a stack of legal papers, Post-it notes, a screwed-up pack of Lambert and Butler’s. When he doesn’t respond, I continue: ‘If we give them a bit of time, no doubt they’ll explain what happened. We’re all still so shocked.’

  ‘He nearly drowned, Kate. It’s not a bumped knee or a scraped elbow.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I feel as guilty as hell? I was the one worried about the pond, who wanted it fenced off. They were playing in the garden, good as gold until I heard the glass in the French windows smash.’

  ‘How the hell did they do that? The builder says he’s never seen anything like it.’ He stops moving about the kitchen to stand in front of the window, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, his back to me. ‘I took a look at the doors while trying to figure out where you’d gone. How did all the glass smash in every pane? Tom’s football wouldn’t do that. They need entirely reglazing.’

  I don’t know the answer. It doesn’t make sense. How can I say what I saw? Shirley’s right, he’ll think I’m soft in the head, the very last thing I need.

  ‘Why weren’t you out there keeping an eye on them?’

  ‘They’re nine, nearly ten years old! They’ve played out in the garden at weekends without us standing over them. If you must know, I was looking through your house file.’

  The file and papers are still scattered where I left them. He has to have seen it.

  ‘All the things you’ve kept secret from me. Is it any wonder I was distracted? Don’t you think I should have known all that stuff?’

  ‘It was decades ago.’

  ‘You researched the house after you got Mrs Havers’ letter, didn’t you? Why keep it all from me?’

  Mark leans both hands on the work surface and stares outside. Silver patches of spider webs dot the lawn. With his back to me I can’t gauge what he’s thinking, if he’ll say anything more.

  ‘Did you plan on telling me about the house? About Richard Denning?’

  I snatch up the file, pull out the copied pages from the East Anglian Daily Times, and wave them at Mark’s back. The papers crackle and flutter in my hand.

  ‘Some one was murdered at this house, the prime suspect is our gardener!’

  ‘He was acquitted.’

  ‘Only through lack of evidence! Don’t you mind someone like that around your wife and children?’

  Mark doesn’t move a muscle, he just keeps staring out at the garden, which enrages me more. I take a breath and try to speak calmly.

  ‘And what about Edward Havers, found dead in the pond? I can use google too you know, Mark!’ My voice is raised as I finish speaking. I can’t help thinking Jennifer will be listening, maybe George Cooper as well. I’m all over the place today.

  ‘Clever old you. Then you’ll know there was nothing suspicious about his death, Kate. People die, sometimes in their homes. You knew Mrs Havers was a widow, so naturally her husband had died. Would you usually raise questions about that? No, you wouldn’t.’

  Mark turns around, folds his arms across his chest and looks me straight in the face. ‘This was all decades ago. Ancient history, all old houses have their stories.’

  ‘I had the right to know though before we decided to come here. Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to buy Haverscroft if I had. Doesn’t my opinion count for anything? Aren’t we both supposed to want this house together?’

  ‘You were ill, Kate, just starting to get better when all that came to light, but no stress, the GP said. If you took things slowly and quietly, most likely you’d be okay. What would you have done if I’d told you about the children, about any of it? You’d have gone nuts, got stressed, become hysterical.’

  We’re fighting as soon as he’s here and he’s right about me back then. The medication either made me as dopey as hell or had me screeching like a banshee. Whatever I say, whatever he says about the house, won’t change the fact we’ve moved here. I want to get back to Tom.

  ‘Can’t we leave it for now and let the kids tell us in their own time? How long are you here for?’

  ‘I’m going back Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘Is Jennifer staying here until then?’ I make my tone light, inquisitive.

  ‘She’s here for a few days, there are no fixed plans. I’ve asked George Cooper to put our old double bed back together now the spare room’s cleared of junk.’

  ‘She’s sleeping in there?’ The surprise, alarm is clear in my voice, Mark frowns. ‘I mean . . .’ Words jumble in my brain.

  ‘The room’s fine now the carpet’s skipped,’ says Mark. ‘She’s been a bit wobbly lately. She has some new tablets for her blood pressure that her GP says should settle her down. I’d like her here, just until I’m sure she’s okay.’

  I have to say something, try to change this plan. It’s the only empty bedroom, it makes sense for guests to use it.

  ‘Maybe she’s safer downstairs if her blood pressure’s erratic?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. The builder has plastic sheeting to cover the French windows – that should help keep the draught out. Maybe you’d light the fire in there for her? If we get the house good and warm, everyone will be more comfortable, won’t they?’

  He knows. I can tell from his tone, his patronising smile. He knows I want to say the kids and I hate that room.

  ‘I can’t explain it. There’s something here,’ I say.

  Mark studies my face. I hold his gaze.

  ‘Something’s not right about the house, and that room in particular.’

  Mark shrugs, waits for me to carry on.

  ‘Isn’t it what Mrs Havers’ letter was about?’

  ‘What are you suggesting, for Christ’s sake, Kate? Ghosts and ghouls, things that go bump in the night?’ His laugh is a sneer, cold and menacing in a way I’ve never heard before.

  A tap tap on the kitchen door makes me jump. I spin around, wrench it open and stare into my mother-in-law’s face. Knowing Jennifer, she’s been there ages and heard all we’ve said.

  ‘Sorry to bother you.’ She looks past me into the kitchen, at Mark, back to me. ‘Your builder’s upstairs in the spare room. He says he’s unwell. He’s asking for you, Kate.’

  Chapter 21

  George Cooper sits on the bottom stair, his head bowed so I only see the top of it. I stop just in front of him and touch his shoulder. He looks up at me, his face ashen, his brow beaded with perspiration.

  ‘Are you okay, George?’

  Mark hovers beside me not sure what to do with himself.

  ‘I had a bit of a turn in that bedroom I’m working in. I feel such a fool now. Bloody door slammed and I couldn’t open it. I came over all panicky.’ His eyes are full of fear and confusion.

  ‘Can I get you something, George? Water? A cup of tea? You look dreadfully pale,’ I say.

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ll be alright in a minute. I don’t know what I’ll say to Shirley about it.’

  I crouch beside him and put my hand on his arm. ‘I think she might understand perfectly well, don’t you?’ I say,
my voice low, aware of Mark and Jennifer behind me.

  He glances up, then back to staring at the floor tiles.

  ‘Where’s Tom?’ I say, a cold wave of panic washing over me as I get to my feet. No plink plink of the iPad. I stare at Mark, at Jennifer, they stare back. I rush across the hall to the morning room.

  Tom hasn’t moved, still in the middle of Mum’s sofa, his pale face stares up at me, the tablet in his lap.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  He flings the iPad aside, jumps from the sofa and rushes at me. ‘I heard some noises upstairs, but they’ve stopped now.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I take his hand and turn back to the hall. Mark stands in the doorway. ‘It was only George Cooper putting the bed together for Nanna Jen, okay?’

  Tom nods, Mark goes back into the hall. I exchange a glance with my son and we follow my husband to where George still sits, head in hands.

  I look up to the empty landing. Nothing but shadows and dust.

  ‘I was trying to get the door open.’ He looks at Mark, then at me. ‘From the landing side, it was. A banging – not a random thing. It sounded angry like . . . like someone trying to get in.’

  I hold George’s stare, words fail to come. I know exactly what he means, a shiver gooses my skin.

  ‘No one else is here, unless you think it’s Tom playing tricks,’ says Mark.

  Tom gasps, I squeeze his hand to stay silent. George has no chance of explaining this to Mark in a way my husband will find credible.

  ‘It weren’t your boy, I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, what, then?’ says Mark, frustration clear in his voice.

  George Cooper looks at me and I know he’s struggling to explain what’s happened. I can’t help him. I’ve no words to express it either. I don’t know whether to feel relieved it’s not just me, or sorry for George.

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ says Jennifer, taking Mark by the elbow and heading towards the kitchen. ‘Something hot and sweet, isn’t it, for shock.’

  ‘Have you had a shock?’ says Tom, sitting next to George.

  ‘I’m not right sure what I’ve had, Tom. I’m feeling a bit more myself now. That door’s open up there though, Kate. Can’t say I fancy going back right now to bolt it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, George. Can I call anyone for you? Your wife?’

  ‘I’ll be alright, just give me a minute and some of that tea.’ George smiles, his face has some of its colour back. ‘You and me, hey Tom. Been in a bit of bother, I’d say.’

  Tom nods, smiles at George.

  ‘Sophie!’ says Tom, leaping to his feet at the sound of crunching gravel. He runs outside, down the front steps. Sophie tugs Riley along, Shirley a few metres behind. No sign of Mr Whittle.

  ‘Here comes the cavalry,’ says George, relief clear in his voice.

  ‘I’ll be intrigued to hear you explain all this to Shirley,’ I say with a flat smile.

  George Cooper’s van turns out of the drive towards the village, Shirley’s promised to call later to confirm he’s okay.

  ‘Well, it’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?’ Jennifer walks down the front steps buttoning a camel coat to her neck. She has a black beret over her short grey hair, black bag and leather gloves. ‘There’s no food in, so Mark’s taking the twins and me shopping.’

  ‘I hadn’t expected you both to be here. I thought it was just going to be me and the children.’

  Mark’s at the front door yelling for the twins. The lights on the Audi bleep as he jogs down the front steps.

  ‘Are you taking Tom?’ I say as Mark approaches me.

  ‘He wants to come and says he feels fine.’

  ‘He’s only just home . . .’

  ‘Mother can sit with him in the car or the kids can have something in the supermarket cafe with her if he feels wobbly. We won’t be long.’

  I want to argue for Tom to stay home, but then I want the kids out of the house . . . Mark waves a scrap of paper towards me.

  ‘Is there anything else we need?’

  I take the list, cast my eye down a long, scribbled column all in Jennifer’s slanting handwriting. Broccoli is underlined. I look up at Mark.

  ‘It’s not great to find the fridge empty. What the hell do you do with your time, Kate?’

  I’m aware of Jennifer hovering beside the car, tucking her gloves into her bag. I smile at Mark.

  ‘You should have let me know you and Jennifer were coming, Mark. Had I known, I would have had food in and asked Mrs Cooper to bake us some of her wonderful cakes.’ I hold Mark’s gaze. ‘While I’m not working, I don’t spend money when we don’t need to, as you know.’

  The twins stand shoulder to shoulder looking entirely fed up. Tom has his feet jammed into his trainers, the backs flattened from not unlacing them, Sophie’s hair is wild, windblown strands lose from their clips from her walk with Shirley.

  ‘We’d planned a trip into town today, the cinema and the supermarket. But our son nearly drowning rather disrupted things.’ I smile so pleasantly I know it will piss Mark off.

  He says nothing, snatches the list from my hand and heads towards the car.

  ‘Have some time to yourself, Kate. It would be nice if the fire’s going by the time we’re back. We’ll probably be a couple of hours.’

  Sophie has Tom’s coat tucked under one arm.

  ‘Have you got your inhaler, Tom?’ I ask, taking his coat from his sister and holding it out for him. He pushes one arm then the other into the sleeves.

  ‘It’s in Dad’s pocket.’

  ‘You’re sure you want to go? We can find something to do if you’re not feeling up to it.’

  ‘Stop fussing, Kate, I tell you he’s fine.’ Mark is herding the twins towards the car. ‘Would you lock the spare room before you go, Mark?’

  As the words leave my mouth I watch his expression alter from irritated annoyance to disbelief.

  ‘For God’s sake, Kate, get a grip. Do you honestly think I’d let mother sleep in there if I had any concerns?’

  He gets in the car, Jennifer in the front passenger seat. The Audi heads down the drive, the twins’ faces peering anxiously from the rear window.

  I can’t be here alone, even with Riley for company, not with that door unlocked. I can’t bother poor Shirley, not again today, she’s seen far too much of us lately as it is. But I can find Richard Denning and thank him for all his help yesterday. And it would be useful to speak to Alan Wynn.

  The boathouse is in darkness, the cabin doors closed with brass cabin hooks. Fog is seeping back, clinging to the riverbank, creeping through the reeds.

  ‘Come on Riley, let’s try the church on our way back.’

  I’d never thought I’d talk to a dog the way I’ve started to chatter to Riley. I like to think he understands and agrees with me most of the time. At least he doesn’t argue back. It’s barely three in the afternoon and already the light is fading, the brightness, what little there is of it, dull and flat. It’ll be dusk by four, dark by five. We reach the lych gate and I’m relieved to see the tall leaded church windows illuminated from within, the heavy front door open.

  ‘Kate, how are you? How’s Tom?’

  Alan Wynn sits at the crowded desk in the vestry.

  ‘He’s doing okay, thanks. We’re all bit shocked, but thankfully there’s no permanent damage. But I imagine,’ I say, smiling, ‘you’ve heard that already?’

  ‘I confess all,’ he says, throwing up his hands in feigned horror.

  ‘I was looking for Richard Denning. I didn’t get a chance to thank him before we were whisked off in the ambulance yesterday.’

  ‘He’s on the annual Horticultural Society trip to a local nursery. He stocks up on all sorts for next season. I’ll see him tomorrow and can let him know you wanted a word.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be g
reat.’

  I stand in the vestry doorway not knowing how to broach the subject, the idea that was building in my head on the walk over here.

  ‘Was there something else? Something I can help out with?’

  Alan’s eyes never leave my face.

  ‘Last time we spoke, about the house, Haverscroft, you mentioned you might be able to do something.’

  ‘I’ve had a bit of a look into it all since then,’ he says, turning back to the desk and rummaging through piles of papers. He pulls out a single sheet. He looks down the page and then back at me. ‘Two things came up. The first, a simple blessing can be done quite easily; anything more would need permission from the bishop. I see no reason why I can’t ask about it if you wanted to pursue that avenue.’

  ‘We could try a blessing first, see how it goes?’

  He pauses, still watches me. ‘I understand Mrs Havers may have tried something similar some years ago. My predecessor carried out the service for her.’

  I’m amazed. I must look surprised as Alan raises his eyebrows and smiles.

  ‘She must believe, or at least she did then, there’s something at Haverscroft,’ I say.

  “Presumably she did.’

  ‘Then why did she flatly deny it when I asked her?’

  Haverscroft is in darkness as we dash up the front steps, it was silly to have rushed out without leaving some lights on. For once I get the front door open and closed again without too much of a battle. I switch on the hall lights as Riley happily scampers off to the kitchen. It’ll be dark within twenty minutes or so, Mark can’t be long coming back. Time enough to ramp up the stove and light the fire in the morning room. There’s no way I can light the fire in that upstairs room, not until Mark is back. I can’t shake off my unease about it being unlocked, I won’t feel happy until it is. I head for the stairs.

  Halfway up the flight I glance back down the stairwell. Riley sits quietly waiting, his tail wags as I look at him. I’m gripping the banister, can smell only a hint of stale cigarettes. Mark, most likely. There’s no rancid, sweet smell. And no sign of our torch, Mark presumably has moved it. The landing is dark, but the room isn’t. Light filters through from the south-facing French windows, the last room to lose the daylight, what little we’ve had today.