by S. A. Harris
‘Your children’s?’ I ask.
‘My sister, Helena, gave him to me one birthday. I was terribly keen on him for years. You know how children become attached to such things.’ She pulls her eyes away from the golly and stares at me.
‘I thought we’d thrown him out with all the other things from the attic. I expect one of my twins rescued him.’ I doubt the twins would have done any such thing, but I can’t immediately think of another explanation.
‘When the chimney came down, we were clearing up and found the key to the metal box in the golly’s pocket.’
Mrs Havers stares at me, her eyes hold mine. I’m reminded of the woman in the mirror, that empty, blank stare. It’s impossible to guess what’s in her head. She turns away from me and walks towards the French windows.
‘I suggest you dispose of it.’ Her tone is clipped and sharp. ‘I’ve been admiring your room,’ she continues. ‘It’s beautifully decorated. I thoroughly approve of the decor, it’s so much fresher and brighter than before. I’m glad to see you light a fire.’
The grate is full of yesterday’s ash waiting to be cleared and relayed. I glance back at the sofa, half expect the golly to be gone, but he’s still there.
‘Would you like to walk around the garden?’ I ask, keen to escape the golly’s fixed stare and Jennifer’s inquisitive ears.
‘I thought you would never ask,’ she says, tapping her stick against the windows.
Pockets of frost linger on the terrace, the sun low and yellow. She walks slowly, each step carefully taken, all the time pointing out this plant and that. I can’t get the thing with the golly out of my head.
‘My sister put in that climber, only a bare root at the time, no more than a foot tall. It smothers the wall in June with deep red blooms and has such a lovely heavy scent. It was her favourite rose. You won’t have seen it yet?’
Mrs Havers watches me, expects a response. I shake my head. ‘We first looked around at the end of May, just as the wisteria was going over at the front of the house.’
‘Yes, yes. Now I remember.’
She heads for the terrace steps, puts her elbow out for me to take her arm as we descend to the path. We make our way along the gravel to the long border.
‘You need a map,’ she says, pointing her stick at the turned black soil. ‘A plan of what’s here. Richard will be unlikely to tell you. I’ll put something together, if it will help?’
She’s friendly again and, I suspect, making an effort to be so.
‘Yes, certainly, thank you.’
‘You don’t want to dig up something precious!’
What does she think of plastic, white goal posts, a football caught in a shrub at the front of the border? Here and there the lawn is scuffed from skidding, kicking feet, Riley’s scrabbling paws.
‘Richard told me that he’d put the posts in.’
‘I thought it might keep the children away from the pond.’
‘He said as much. He’s been giddy recently, a bit of tummy upset. It troubles him greatly to think that if he’d finished the job sooner your boy may not have taken a tumble.’
‘I’m sure it made no difference. If they’d been determined to go near the pond they only needed to duck beneath the rope. I can’t understand though why they would. I’d been so clear, perhaps too clear, about not to play near the water.’
We reach the end of the border, I put out my hand and catch a strand of willow. I’ve no wish to go any further and realise Mrs Havers also hangs back.
‘There’s a little metal seat,’ she jabs her stick towards the willow. ‘Helena’s favourite spot, we often sat there together. Like you, she was a talented artist. I keep a number of her sketches still. There are many of the pond, with the church tower rising in the distance. You’re like her in many ways.’
She’s silent, her eyes unfocused on the swaying willow branches.
‘I came here today to discuss a private matter with you. It requires a little explanation, if you can bear with me?’
‘Of course.’ I wait for her to continue, wondering what could be so urgent.
‘Some think it odd Richard and I are such firm friends. It is, of course, absolutely none of their business.’
She purses her lips into a coral-pink line.
‘We both felt Helena’s loss keenly; a shared grief is a little easier to bear. Richard says he feels her here still, particularly on a warm summer’s evening, in the scent of the roses.’
She looks me full in the face for an instant before turning towards the house.
‘Richard is a dear man and would never have harmed Helena in any way. Gossip in the village says it was my husband.’ She glances at me as I catch up. ‘I’m sure you’ll have done your research or Shirley will have told you.’ She stabs her stick into the grass with each alternate step and puts her elbow out again, I take her arm, the grass uneven, she leans against me, then the stick.
‘I do not make excuses for Edward, I merely seek to explain. He was convinced Helena was unfaithful although I have her word she was not.’
We reach the gravel path, she points her stick back the way we have come. ‘Just after the start of the new year, you will see a great swath of snowdrops all across here. Quite stunning on a sunny winter’s morning. It would be better to keep the children off the grass then, if you can.’
She stops at the bottom of the steps that lead to the terrace, turns to face me and lowers her voice so I barely catch her words.
‘I have only ever spoken to Richard about the matter I now refer to. You know me a little, you know I value my privacy. I must have your discretion: not a word must pass to anyone.’
I’m astonished. ‘Of course.’
‘I only tell you at Richard’s insistence. He is quite right – you need to know. The inquest found that my boys died by misadventure caused by my husband Edward driving in the loke here.’
I recall the news reports of the inquest, its outcome and fail to imagine how this woman must have felt.
‘Some weeks later Edward claimed that it was no accident. Like my sister before, he accused me of being unfaithful and said that the boys weren’t his. Absurd, but once a thought fixed in his head, there was no shifting it. Logic and reason played no part. Fear was his friend, he used it to control both his wives.’
She stares at the end of her stick, silence pulling out. I wait as she gathers her thoughts.
‘I tried to put it all out of my mind. I did not wish to believe Edward, who would do such a thing? But his paranoia was such . . .’ She breaks off, her thoughts left unfinished. She presses her lips together. ‘As a mother, you might try to imagine how impossible it was to erase that accusation from my memory. Should I have done more to protect my children? Andrew was just nine and Micheal only seven years old when they died.’
She looks up at the terrace steps, but makes no move.
‘Before I mustered the courage to challenge him he suffered a fatal heart attack.’ She points her stick back towards the willow. ‘I found him there, quite dead, floating in the pond. He died before he had time to drown.’
‘I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how you coped being here alone.’
‘Richard is a dear friend, a great comfort, and I had my garden.’
‘What happened to your nephew, Freddie, Helena’s son?’
Her dark eyes look at me. I’m pushing too hard, too fast, but I need to know.
‘Edward moved to London after my sister died.’ It’s impossible to gauge her, what she’s thinking. I tilt my head to one side, make it clear what she’s said isn’t enough. ‘He continued to maintain the boy wasn’t his, then the child died within a few months of his mother. Scarlet fever – it was quite common back then.’
She looks away, out across the garden. Does Mark know about all this? How far has his research into Haverscroft and the
family gone? Another thing to put me off moving here.
‘I’m so sorry.’ It sounds so trite, inadequate but words fail me. ‘And here, what is at the house?’
‘What do you mean, Mrs Keeling?’ She takes a step towards the terrace.
‘You know what I mean.’
She lowers her head, her hat shields her face.
‘What does one know, exactly?’ She rakes the gravel with her stick, short, deep strokes scarring the path, a line of dark earth. ‘There was nothing which concerned me before my husband passed away. Since then . . .’ She looks at me. ‘You have experienced the room above here.’ She nods towards the spare room. ‘It was my sister’s room when she was married. They argued there, I heard them myself. And she claimed Edward locked her and her son in there. Her journal, I assume, referred to some of this?’
I nod, recalling entry upon troubling entry.
Mrs Havers shakes her head. ‘Get Wynn, the new man, in. Reverend Haddingley did something for me, quietened it all down for some time, but of course by then only I was here and kept myself to the ground floor rooms.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me? I thought I was imagining things!’
‘I wrote to you, I warned your husband before you bought the house. He chose not to listen. Most do, Mrs Keeling, most do.’
‘Mark came to see you? When?’
For an instant, she looks at me, then taps her stick again into the gravel.
‘I don’t recall exactly. I can be forgiven the occasional lapse of memory at my age.’
She twists the ring on her finger, glances up at the terrace and takes a step forwards.
‘You might at least try,’ I say, my voice terse.
‘It was shortly after I first wrote to you, I’d say. The roses were in full bloom.’
Tom, Sophie, then Riley hurtle around the corner of the house and race across the lawn. Tom picks up the football and flings it across the grass sending Riley sprinting after it. The children’s laughter, the dog’s excited yap, yap yapping ring through the cold air.
‘He’s like his father, although very fair, of course.’ She watches the children chasing after each other and the ball. Riley scampers up to Mrs Havers, tail wagging nineteen to the dozen, then turns, sprints back to the twins. ‘He’s a friendly little fellow.’
Jennifer comes onto the terrace and stops at the top of the steps, her jacket pulled tight across her chest. She smiles down at us. ‘Tea’s getting cold.’
Mrs Havers waves her stick. ‘We’re on our way!’
She puts her elbow out, I take it, hold her back for a moment. She looks up into my face.
‘Are my children safe here, Mrs Havers? At least tell me that.’
Chapter 24
Sunday 31st October
I close the back gate onto the lane, let Riley off his lead and head along the narrow winding path towards the house. Haverscroft was quiet, the twins, Mark and Jennifer having a Sunday morning lie-in when we left over an hour ago. The damp chill from our march through empty lanes, deserted village and towpath has seeped into my bones, all I want is the warm stove and a piping hot mug of tea before the household stirs into action.
The walk gave me a chance to mull over my conversation with Mrs Havers. Once the children are in school on Monday morning, if I manage to dodge Jennifer for an hour or so, I’ll see if I can pick up Wi-Fi in the café on the high street. I can’t shake off the feeling Mrs Havers holds back more than she reveals. And if Mark intends his mother to be here for the week, I’ll be cheerful and on top of things. A cooked breakfast of pancakes, coffee and newspapers will set things up nicely before Mark heads back to London this afternoon.
The path widens to a clearing, the dark expanse of the pond spreading away towards the thicket of yew, the round church tower beyond. Fog hugs the banks and curls across still black water. Near-naked trees drip against my windcheater as I duck a low branch. No sign of Riley. The ground at the pond’s edge is scuffed, ridges and dents in the soft leaf matter where knees and heels and hands struggled to get a grip. My throat tightens, I look away toward the rusting metal seat. Richard Denning stares back at me.
‘Sorry to startle you, miss. I sometimes sit here. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, trying to cover my shock with a smile. ‘I’ve wanted to speak to you, to thank you properly for your help with my son the other day.’
‘Alan Wynn mentioned that.’
I’m breathing hard, he sees it, I rush on. ‘I didn’t expect to see anyone at this time of the morning.’
‘The river’s always moving; the water’s more restful here.’
I can’t think of a reply. I’ve always felt on edge beside the pond and still do, worse since Tom’s accident. And this silent man is so hard to gauge. I glance at the curtain of willow separating us from the house and garden. Riley’s distant yap, yap, yapping, no one about yet to let him in.
‘Alice called then?’
Alice Havers. I’ve seen her Christian name on the old deeds, the contract we signed when buying Haverscroft and her letters. I’d never given it a second thought until now, but it suits her.
‘She says she told you about me being a bit off colour. Still, I should’ve had that rope and post fence done for you.’
‘Please don’t blame yourself. I’m sure they won’t make the same mistake again.’
‘I swept the terrace after you and your boy went off in the ambulance. Whole lot of glass and mess there was.’
I stare back at his calm features, his green eyes, milky in his sun-darkened face.
‘You saw the glass, on the terrace?’
He watches the water for a moment, glances my way as if to check I’m still here. He smiles and pushes his cap a little further back on his head. He’s far friendlier looking when he smiles. I’ve only ever seen him with a glower.
‘I get the feeling Mrs Havers holds out on me,’ I say to him. ‘I just want to know my children are safe.’
‘She’ll tell you what she wants you to know and ignores anything she doesn’t. I told her it won’t do, not any longer.’
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The seat’s small and shallow, it can’t be comfortable for a tall man. Riley’s barking. ‘Mummy?’ Tom, yelling from the terrace, by the sounds of it. Wondering where I am.
‘She reckoned if there was any trouble here it was her family’s. It wouldn’t be a bother to anyone else.’ He looks at me before staring back across the water. ‘Things don’t always turn out like you think they will, do they?’ He stops speaking and looks at me again.
‘Mummy, where are you?’ Sophie, concern in her voice.
‘The night Helena died, I found her badly hurt and knew right away nothing could be done. I stayed with her. It’s a bad thing to leave this world alone.’
A shiver crosses my shoulders, a tight knot in my chest. He’s paying me little attention, talking to himself, his eyes all the time watch the water.
‘Mummy! Mum?’
The twins sound frantic, I should go.
‘You know what happened to her?’
He doesn’t respond, continues to stare at the water. I glance towards the house, its invisible from here behind the cloak of willow branches. He nods, a small rocking motion of his head. His eyes turn towards me, he looks me full in the face.
‘I’ve always known what happened to her.’
He takes a deep breath. It’s taking a great deal for this quiet, private man to speak of these things. He looks tired and drained. Just how old is he? He stands up and brushes down his baggy old cords as he looks beyond where I stand, back towards the house.
‘Kate? Where the hell are you?’
Mark now. Can’t I have five minutes!
‘You’d better be looking after those children.’
He turns rather stif
fly, heads towards me, passes where I stand. He stops at the path and looks back at me.
‘Come and join us for a cup of coffee. I’m about to cook pancakes, bacon and eggs.’
I want to know what he has to say, it might be better if Mark hears it too, although he’s likely to dismiss it, but at least it won’t be coming from me.
‘It’s waited half a century, it’ll wait another twenty-four hours.’
He glances at me, tired eyes. Now we’re close I see his skin’s grey, his cheeks hollow.
‘Weather’s due to be bad for the next few days. I’ll be about my boat tomorrow afternoon. You’re welcome to come over anytime.’
He sets off along the path towards the rear gate. I can’t think of any reason to delay him.
‘Kate?’ Mark holds back the draping willow branches. He’s come out in a hurry, tee-shirt and jeans, deck shoes, no socks. ‘There you are. We were worried with Riley back.’
‘For goodness sake, Mark. Did you think I’d got lost walking the dog?’
I look towards the path, Richard Denning holds up his hand and calls over his shoulder, ‘See you tomorrow. I’ll fill in the gaps for you.’
Chapter 25
‘What have you said to Mother?’
Mark pulls open the garage doors. I follow him inside and wait for him to turn around and look at me. He leans with his back against the Armstrong Siddeley’s bonnet. I shake my head, no clue what he’s on about.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She wants to catch the next train back to London.’
‘I haven’t said anything.’
‘Something’s upset her. Last night she was talking about being here for the next few days.’ Mark glares at me.
‘I haven’t had a conversation with Jennifer about any of that. I’ve no idea.’
‘You’ve hardly been welcoming though, have you? It’s no wonder she’s decided she can’t stay.’
‘That isn’t fair! I told you I didn’t appreciate being dumped with your mother. You say how difficult she is. I’ve tried to be friendly. You know what’s she’s like.’