by S. A. Harris
I let go of the banister, my knuckles ache from the force I’ve been gripping it with. I run towards the door, my focus on the doorknob. I reach out my right hand as something brushes my cheek, cold, icy, a stench of stale nicotine. I don’t move, I’m shivering, my breath frozen in my throat and still a metre or so from the door.
A punch, a terrific bang between my shoulder blades shoves me forward, my hand misses the door entirely, my feet tripping over themselves as I try to keep my balance, my shoulder cracks against the door, an outline of the bed-frame, the mattress half-on, half-off the bed. My boot catches on something, I throw out my hands into darkness.
A sound, a yowling, distant and far away.
‘Mummy? Hello?’
Pain in my head, worse as I move, try to open my eyes.
‘Kate, where the hell are you?’
The yowling is Riley, I’ve not heard him sound that way, not since the storm.
I’m cold, my shoulder aching, something touches my arm, I jolt upright and stare at the room. Harsh light, a bare bulb overhead, the dark dressing table, a half-made bed.
‘Whatever happened, Katherine?’
I raise my hand to my forehead, feel it swollen and tender where my hairline starts. Coffee-coloured trousers.
‘Wait right there, don’t try and get up, you’ve a great lump on your head.’
Quick footsteps, heels click, click, click on the floorboards. Soft thuds along the landing.
‘Mark! Mark, darling! She’s up here.’
There’s urgency in her tone, an old woman not sure what to do. My fingers gently explore the lump, hard, extremely tender, but I guess I’ll live. My left leg feels heavy and dead, blood rushing in, pins and needles. I rub my thigh, keep my eyes from the dressing table. Mark’s heavy tread on the stairs.
‘Mummy!’
Tom, Sophie? I can’t tell, the shriek so high pitched. Riley’s barking, claws scratching, scampering up the stairs.
‘Go into the kitchen, Kids. Stay right there.’ Mark, more worried than annoyed.
Riley’s here, pushing his wet nose into my hand. I scruff his soft head, pull his warm fluffy body to mine. Jennifer here too, she’s speaking, her voice concerned, softer than usual.
‘Kate, can you move? What the hell happened?’ Mark’s kneeling beside me, his hand pushing back my hair, his fingertips brush the sore patch. I wince. ‘That’s quite a lump you’ve got there, Kate.’
‘It was dark in here.’ Jennifer’s speaking, has hold of my hand, is rubbing the back of it with hot thin fingers. ‘This room’s such a state. I nearly caught my foot on some old junk when I came in. I know he was taken ill, but your builder shouldn’t be leaving the room this way.’
‘You probably tripped and banged your head on the fender as you fell,’ says Mark. I almost certainly did. I’m right by the fireplace, somehow. ‘What the hell were you doing up here in the dark? Come on, let’s see if we can get you into the kitchen. You’re freezing.’
Chapter 22
The children’s voices murmur against the pop and crackle of the morning-room fire. Their words undulate, ripple and rise before Sophie hushes Tom. A furtive glance towards Mum’s sofa, they see me peeping at them from beneath the thick throw Mark tucked around me earlier. Tom’s head jerks up, a hurried look at the hall door, it’s pushed to, not closed.
‘We didn’t wake you, did we Mummy.’
A statement, a worried small voice. My daughter’s face is blotched and red, her eyes glitter.
‘Hey,’ I say, propping myself onto my elbow. Sharp pain cuts cross my temple. I raise my hand to my forehead, the lump is there, harder, smaller now. A wave of nausea grips my stomach. I sink back into the pile of cushions pushed under my head. Mild concussion, the Weldon GP said, I’ll be fine in a day or two.
‘You didn’t wake me. What are you two up to, whispering away over there?’ I force a bright tone into my voice, push my hand out from the throw towards the twins. They scamper across the space between us, Tom grabs my hand, they sit with their faces close to mine.
‘What’s up?’ I say. Even frowning hurts. Gingerly, I push myself back, pull the cushions into place and sit with my feet tucked beneath me.
‘Come on,’ I say, patting the sofa, ‘jump up.’
A mad scramble of skinny limbs, shoving and jostling at my feet.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, looking at Sophie. She drops her gaze, worries a corner of the throw between her fingers.
‘Tom?’
My son shrugs, looks at the door, back at me.
‘Are you two in trouble?’ I ask with a feigned scowl. Tom’s shaking his head, Sophie watches me from beneath dark wet lashes.
‘Where’s the iPad? Dad’s not taken it away already, has he?’
I pull a face, smile at the twins. If there’s been trouble, the first thing Mark would do is confiscate whatever’s presently in vogue.
‘It’s flat. Dad’s charging it in the kitchen. I don’t want to go in there and get it though.’ Tom looks at Sophie, their eyes hold one another’s, that silent communication they used so much when they were tiny.
‘Nanna Jen’s cooking dinner,’ Sophie says, nodding at Tom. Tom nods back at her.
‘Vegetables? Broccoli?’ I say.
‘Carrots and parsnips too. I hate parsnips! And roast pork. I said we don’t like it when we were in Tesco’s, but Dad didn’t listen, did he, Tom?’
‘Shush, Soph.’ Tom looks at me. ‘We mustn’t bother you, Dad said.’
I laugh. ‘You’re not bothering me, don’t be daft. Please be polite to Nanna Jen and eat some dinner. I’ll see what we can do a bit later – there’s a pizza in the fridge. Where’s Riley?’
Another exchange of looks between the twins.
‘Dad put him in his kennel,’ Tom replies. ‘He got under Nanna Jen’s feet. He’s been making a horrible sad sound for ages now, you can hear him in the kitchen. Nanna put the radio on. She turned it up really loud.’ Tom’s eyes widen as he speaks, great ovals of concern.
‘Well, maybe we can have him in here. Dad’s probably worried that he’ll trip Nanna up. She’s been a bit wobbly lately, hasn’t she.’
‘She seems fine to me!’ says Sophie, eyes blazing.
Mark and Jennifer’s voices in the hall, getting louder, coming closer. The twins both watch the door. Mark’s thudding footsteps on the stairs, Jennifer’s shrill voice growing fainter.
‘They’re going upstairs,’ says Sophie as we all look at the ceiling. Floorboards creak overhead.
‘Is Nanna really sleeping in there? On her own?’ asks Tom.
‘I’ve told Daddy I don’t think it’s a good idea and that she could sleep in here, but he thinks it’ll be okay,’ I say.
‘But he doesn’t know, does he?’
‘Shuuuush, Sophie! You know what Dad said.’
‘But he doesn’t, does he, Mum.’
Tom puts his hands over his ears, scrunches his eyes shut. I can hear Mark raking the grate in the room above, the low hum of conversation.
‘Nip out and get Riley you two, while the coast is clear.’ The twins stare at me. I smile. ‘Go on! I’ll say I insisted. He’ll be freezing outside, he’s not used to it.’
The children rush for the door, feet pitter patter across the hall. Quite what’s been going on while I’ve been out of it isn’t clear. I grope on the floor, find my sketch pad and pencils. I’d tried drawing for a few minutes after the GP left, but it had been exhausting.
The sketch isn’t quite right, Sophie’s profile is flat, none of her is here. Tom walked onto the page. I erase a section and try again, from memory this time. I’ve drawn the children so often, watched them sleep, eat, play, so it’s not hard to do. I attempt to catch the tilt of her head, the dip of her chin as she watched her brother firing Lego bullets at aliens while they sat before
the fire earlier. I can’t get Sophie, just Tom, the little boy he once was, still is so often in my mind. I drop the sketch pad to my lap. Perhaps it’s the bang to my head, my eyes throb, a dull headache making me tired.
Raised voices, Sophie and Mark. A door slams. Fast, light feet running this way, the morning-room door flies open, Sophie crying, jumps onto the sofa.
‘Sophie? Whatever’s the matter?’
I sit up, put my hand on my daughter’s back, her face buried in the throw at my feet. I’ve been dozing, how long have I been out of it this time? Mark’s swift steps crossing the hall, he stops in the doorway, his face red, contorted in anger. He sees I’m awake and comes into the room.
‘What’s going on?’ I say.
‘I told the twins to keep out of here and to let you sleep.’
Sophie’s back shivers beneath my hand.
‘Where’s Tom?’
‘Still eating dinner. Mother’s spent half the afternoon preparing it. Sophie was badly behaved. I won’t have her spit food onto her plate.’
Sophie’s head pops up, her face wet and red. ‘It isn’t that. You all keep saying I pushed Tom and I didn’t. I wasn’t anywhere near him.’
‘I won’t have you tell lies, Sophie. Get back in the kitchen and finish your meal!’
‘Hang on a minute, Mark. All this shouting is only making things worse.’ I nod towards the door to the hall. ‘Let me speak to Sophie, you have your food while it’s hot.’
Mark stands like he’s in no-man’s land. I can almost hear his brain whirring, calculating what to do. He says nothing, stares back at me, his eyes full of anger, turns on his heel and heads into the hall. The kitchen door slams.
I rub Sophie’s back and wait for her to calm down.
‘What’s this all about then, Sophie?’
‘I didn’t mean to spit out the carrots, but they made me upset and they got stuck and just came out.’ Her breath is hot through the throw, her words jerking between sobs.
‘How did they upset you?’
I stroke her hair when she doesn’t respond. Mum did just the same thing when I was ill, angry or upset.
‘I’m listening and there’s no one else here to argue with what you say, so before Tom or anyone else comes in, you tell me what happened.’
Sophie peeps up at me.
‘Come on, sit up, you’re squishing my ankles,’ I say, pulling the throw straight.
Sophie gathers herself, sits in a tight little ball at my feet, her arms wrapped about her knees. She sniffs, wipes her nose across her tights.
‘They say it’s all my fault Tom nearly drowned cos I pushed him in, but I didn’t. Honestly, Mum, I really, really didn’t.’
‘How did he fall in, do you know?’
Sophie shakes her head.
‘I heard him yelling when I was filling my water gun at the tap.’
‘Beside the gardener’s shed?’
She nods. ‘Tom did his first, then he ran off to hide. Now he’s blaming it all on me and it wasn’t me.’
‘Tom says you pushed him?’
She nods and nods, her eyes never leaving mine.
‘I think Tom’s scared. Dad and Nanna Jen asked him loads of questions on the way home from the hospital.’
‘Tom told you that?’
She nods again.
‘What happened at the pond, Sophie?’
She sits completely still, her eyes unblinking, staring at me.
‘Do you know?’
Sophie’s silent, so I wait, knowing that she’s holding something in, something that will burst out if I wait.
‘There was no one there, only Tom and his gun in the water. And Riley who was barking all the time. I tried to pull him out, but he was really heavy, wasn’t he?’
I nod and wait for her to continue.
‘So I yelled and yelled for you cos I couldn’t leave him there, could I? I mean, he might . . .’
Her eyes are glassy, her chin shivering.
‘Hey, come here,’ I say, pulling her close. ‘He’s fine now and no one’s going near the pond again, that’s for sure. It’ll be okay, Sophie. You did really well out there, I’m proud of you’
Sophie tucks in closer, her arm about my waist.
‘It was the shouty man, wasn’t it, Mummy?’
Chapter 23
Saturday, 30th October
Mark opens the front door as the twins and I reach the end of the drive.
‘A visitor’s waiting for you in the morning room,’ he says, turning back into the house.
‘Who?’ I ask, running up the steps.
Mark strides across the hall and jogs up the stairs.
‘I need to get on, see if Mother’ll make tea,’ he says as he vanishes along the landing.
The Southampton-case prep. Papers swamp our bedroom, with both the office and spare room out of bounds. Yet he’s managed to spend almost two hours this morning looking over the Armstrong Siddeley with the mechanic. I unzip the neck of my windcheater and shoo the children down the front steps.
‘Take Riley the back way. Don’t let him off the lead till you’ve got the mud off his paws.’
The twins race off around the side of the house, Riley yip yipping at their heels. I win the battle to close the front door and head across the hall, drop my keys, gloves and scarf on the table. The morning-room door is wide open: two brown leather chesterfields, coffee table, the bookcase Mark and I moved in there this morning, the record player and a stack of paperbacks waiting to be sorted onto shelves. The room looks like our space now.
I walk in. She’s standing in front of Mum’s sofa, immaculate in a navy coat, shoes and wide-brimmed hat, clutching a pair of cream gloves and her stick in one hand, my sketch pad in the other.
‘Mrs Havers!’
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Keeling.’
She lowers the sketch pad and smiles at me. ‘I do apologise for the intrusion. One would usually make arrangements, but the matter is quite pressing.’
We stare at one another, my brain scrambling for something to say. I suspect I look like a rabbit in headlights. After our last meeting I never expected to see her again. She raises the sketch pad.
‘You draw very well.’
The half-sketch of the children stares up at us.
‘Thank you, though that one didn’t come off for some reason.’
She studies the drawing for several seconds, the pad trembling as she continues to regard what is only a very rough thing.
‘The boy is very good . . .’
‘Our daughter, Sophie, is the easier of the two to capture usually. Tom looks much younger there.’
I can’t make out her expression, her brow crinkles into a frown and the paper shakes. I think she might say something, instead she turns abruptly and drops the pad onto the sofa.
‘I hear you have been unwell. Are you quite recovered?’
Jennifer’s shoes, clickety-clack, across the hall.
‘I’m much better, thank you. I had an accident, in the bedroom above here. I can’t quite explain how it happened.’ I watch for a reaction from our visitor, but there’s nothing. The hall is suddenly silent. I step towards the door and stare into my mother-in-law’s face. She covers her surprise with a swift smile and comes into the room to stand beside me. Her make up looks fresh, a whiff of sandalwood.
‘We were so concerned,’ she says to Mrs Havers. ‘My son had to go out into the lane to call the doctor. I really don’t know how you manage without any sort of telephone.’ She smiles at me, looks at Mrs Havers. ‘Shall I make tea? Only breakfast blend, I’m afraid, Lady Havers.’
Mrs Havers smiles. I raise my eyebrows, turn away as laughter bubbles up.
‘I’m sure that will be delightful, thank you so much.’
Jennifer hurries back acros
s the hall. I suspect tea won’t be long arriving, my mother-in-law won’t want to miss her share of the conversation. We listen to the clickety-clack of her heels receding across the hall. Mrs Havers’ smile is entirely mischievous.
‘How long are you going to let that go on?’ I say.
‘I rather think it suits me, don’t you?’
She taps her stick on the armrest of Mum’s sofa.
‘They don’t make them like this any longer: good, solid framework and wonderfully turned legs. Will you have it reupholstered?’
‘Possibly. My mother bought it years ago from a flea-market in London near where we lived.’
Mrs Havers studies my face. I smile. What does she think of the new family at Haverscroft?
‘Would you like to sit down? I can bring a chair in from the kitchen if you’d prefer?’
I glance past her, look at Mum’s sofa. How hadn’t I noticed it before, surely it wasn’t just sitting there? My breath is a stone in my throat. Where has it come from, this horrible thing?
‘Mrs Keeling?’
The indentation in the sofa where the twins and I sat earlier is still there, it’s so ancient, the stuffing so compressed, there’s no spring in the saggy old seat. Its balding, curly head tilts slightly to one side, one black button eye stares at Mrs Havers’ back. Sitting bolt upright in the indentation, the throw on its lap, is the golly.
Mrs Havers follows my stare. I can’t see her face, only her hat. She hooks the throw on the end of her stick and flips the fabric aside. I take a step backwards, a shiver runs through me.
‘Where did he come from?’ she says. I shake my head, there’s a quaver in her voice.
‘I found him in the attic, on one of the children’s beds.’
Mrs Havers’ stare is fixed on the ragged old toy. ‘I’ve not seen him in more than sixty years.’ Her voice is a whisper.