by Ruth Harrow
Something to give the game away.
*
The coffee is so bitter it seems to sting my throat as it slips down.
I hardly slept at all last night. When I finally fell into oblivion, I was torn out of it again by the hand of a vivid nightmare. Every time I close my eyes I can still see Eva's expressionless face, still smell the rotting of the forest.
I managed to get Will upstairs to bed last night without disturbing anyone. He was out like a light. It was hours before the room slipped away for me and I drifted off myself.
He was still asleep when I woke from my bad dream, so I dressed and went downstairs alone.
Dad raised his eyebrows at me when I entered the kitchen and he placed a mug of black coffee in front of me – the only sign remaining of breakfast. It is long past eleven in the morning.
Eva is on her phone in the conservatory.
Dad turns to her. 'You are quite close to being outside there, sweetheart. Another few steps and you would have made it into the sunshine. Imagine that?'
Eva looks up from her screen, puzzled. 'What?'
'Why don't you go and sit on a patio chair, Love? It's what it is there for. It's a lovely day. Lots of fresh air out there in the garden, you know. Comes straight across those fields.'
I think again of the flash of light in the darkened field after Penny had been over for dinner. Is Eva safe out there alone?
Dad shuts the conservatory door behind her. She looks confused initially, glancing over her shoulder at us quizzically. After a few minutes, though, she is absorbed in her phone and might as well be anywhere.
I have the urge to take her device and stomp on it until the screen smashes. I wish she wouldn't waste so much of her life on that thing. She needs to pay more attention to what goes on around her. Especially in this place.
'Now then,' Dad says returning to the kitchen. 'I wonder what on earth happened to you and Will last night? I could smell the booze as soon as I got up this morning. Reminds me of the stag party we had stay a few months ago. Penny had a hell of a lot of washing on her hands after that weekend, I can tell you ... Well?'
I don't want to reveal to Dad that I don't even know what exactly went on myself yet. Will has some explaining to do when he wakes up.
'I suppose this means that lunch at that new diner up the way is cancelled then?'
'Yes, I suppose it does.'
He shrugs. 'Well, you had better go and pick us up something for lunch then. We will eat here instead. Will my son-in-law be joining us at all today?'
'He will later. He is just ... a bit tired.'
'I'm sure he is.'
I pick up a basket in the little Tesco Express in the centre of the village and cast around for something special to soften the blow; a better replacement for the meal out Dad had planned. He had been looking forward to feeding the swans too at a nearby lake with Eva.
Probably just as well, really. I can imagine what my daughter would think of such an activity.
I'm just considering a pack of apple and cranberry sausages when I glance up and see Dad's old friend, Reg, in one of the checkout queues. I quickly ditch the sausages and move onto the next chilled aisle.
I'm not keen on running into him again after his outburst at the wake. I still feel cold when I picture the steely look in the old man's eyes.
Perhaps we can all enjoy some chicken and pancetta bake instead?
I take my time in the supermarket, giving Reg enough of a head start. I remember he lives near the railway station a few minutes walk away. His house occupies a secluded spot close enough to the line to hear the trains, but on the other side of the trees that line the platform out of sight.
It suddenly comes back to me how Reg always used to joke that Will came from the wrong side of the tracks. I can't believe he ended up back there last night. He has rarely been more drunk.
I pick up some dessert before paying and starting the walk back to the house. The warm, humid air outside the automatic doors feels like a sauna compared to the cool air-conditioning of the tiny supermarket.
A short distance away, I glance up ahead of me and realise Reg hasn't made it far.
His small plastic bag of groceries is scrunched and large tears occupy the corners. On his other side, he clutches an armful of other items; I can see some loose broccoli and a block of butter perched precariously on the top.
Reg seems to walk at an angle, as though he thinks the world should be a slightly different way up. He isn't quite walking in a straight line and I fear he will career into the nearest lamppost.
As I watch him amble over to the railway path, a tin slips from his tatty bag. It clangs and rolls away into the freshly cut grass nearby.
The noise alarms the old man and the butter slips from his arm and hits the pavement too.
I know I can't just leave him.
I pick up the lost groceries. 'Can I help you with any of that, Reg?'
'Oh. Hello, Hannah. Didn't see you there. Where did you appear from?'
'I was just picking up some lunch and saw you come this way. You dropped some things,' I say, lifting the items as an explanation. 'Do you want me to help you with your bag too? I notice it is a bit worn.'
'Oh no, I can't let you do that, I'm afraid. I have other bags at home somewhere. I find I don't always remember to bring the blasted things out though. But I will not stand to be charged for yet another one, thank you very much.'
He draws himself up straighter which seems to take him a great deal of effort. 'Thank you,' he says. 'But I can manage perfectly well.'
He attempts to rebalance the loose items I pass to him, but struggles.
'I tell you what,' he says. 'Why don't you hang onto those and I will keep hold of my carrier bag, eh? My house is only along this path here. Perhaps you remember?'
I glance over to where the pavement winds around the corner and disappears into the trees. Apprehension rises in my stomach but I push the feelings down.
Reg is an old friend of my father's. He is perfectly safe. Besides, he needs my help. I'll just help him to his front door, that's all.
There is a whistle and a train rattles out of the station noisily as we approach his house, drowning out something he says to me before we step through the front gate.
I look up at the house in surprise.
Reg had always been religiously neat and tidy. He had always kept his home and car immaculate, whether he did it himself or paid others to do it.
Now the detached property in front of me seems to be visibly crumbling compared to the cluster of others on this street. Small patches of render are missing here and there. The paint peels from the front beams near the peaked roof, leaving patches of cracked bare wood underneath. Condensation has seeped in between the panes of glass, partially misting the view of the room beyond.
Reg has opened the front door and disappeared inside, leaving it to swing almost closed but not quite shut.
I am left on the front doorstep clutching the groceries and feeling awkward.
Does he want me to follow him? Or is he coming back out to pick up his things?
I glance down the street when a flicker of movement catches my eye. But a split-second later the net curtains in the neighbouring house are moved swiftly back into place and remain resolutely still.
I knock softly on Reg's front door. He does not reappear. I push the door open tentatively and take a step inside.
Years of must engulfs me in the dark hallway and I try not to breathe too deeply. Trailing cobwebs cling to the yellowing coving above me. Beneath my feet, the old brown carpet is dusty and patchy, heavily worn in the middle. I follow the frequently trodden route and find myself at the kitchen door. Shuffling and clanging sounds inside tell me Reg is busy putting tins away in the cupboards.
I knock on this door too and he turns as I enter.
'Couldn't pop those in the refrigerator, could you?' he asks, raising his thick eyebrows.
'Of course,' I say. I worry the fresh
milk he has left on the worktop will be forgotten in this heat and I pick it up. When I open the fridge door, however, I notice there are another two unopened cartons inside, one of which is already out of date.
The kettle near the decrepit boiler clicks and Reg pours boiling water into cups. Teabags float to the surface, billowing out their rich colour and I realise he is expecting me to stay.
'Listen, Reg. I have to get back to Dad's house soon. I'm due back with the food.' I gesture to my shopping bag.
'But you will stay for one cup, won't you?'
It seems to be more of a statement than a question, but I don't want to be rude; especially since he has already made me a drink.
'Well, all right,' I say, 'Just as long as it's a quick one.'
Reg carries a tea tray through to the lounge and I follow behind, very aware of how much the china rattles.
I perch myself on an uncomfortable high-backed sofa that looks to be the newest thing in the room.
'Thank you,' I say when he hands me a delicate floral cup. The hot liquid burns my fingers through the thin china. It will be a few minutes before I can even take a sip.
This room seems so much worse than the kitchen and hallway. In here, spiders have taken over the corners. Their webs trail over old framed photographs on the mantelpiece. I spot one of a young Reg and his wife, Vivienne on their wedding day.
There are holes in the carpet in here and there is so much dust that it gathers in clusters around the feet of the furniture.
Reg settles himself into a chair closely opposite me with a loud sigh and I spot a white round pill in the dust near the mahogany feet. Beside it are fragments of old food; dried up peas and bits of hardened cheese.
Reg looked so well-presented at the wake last week in his pressed suit and shiny shoes. I am struggling to connect that man with the state of this house. I wonder if anyone else knows he is living like this?
He offers me a plate of shortbread. 'Biscuit?'
'No, thank you,' I say. 'I'll be having lunch in a short while.'
I may not have been back for years, but I know this man well enough that I could tell he wouldn't readily accept any help in the form of a carer or even simply a cleaner. I will have to mention it to Dad later, though.
I glance up and receive a shock when I see him looking at me so intently.
'I'm so sorry about your sister,' he says, sombrely. 'I truly am.'
'Oh,' I say. 'Thank you.'
I take a sip of hot tea and it scalds the roof of my mouth. I hope he doesn't mention the incident at the funeral again.
It is almost as though Reg has picked up my thoughts. 'I am sorry I mentioned the Wakefields the other day. I didn't mean to upset you.'
'No, that's fine. It was just an emotional day altogether.'
He nods as though he isn't really listening to me. 'That family ... Outsiders. They brought the whole tone of the village down when they moved here. Their children running riot all over. The father was a scruff, relying on handouts funded by us hard-working taxpayers for all his children. They would have ruined the place, had someone not done something ...'
I know I should leave it alone, but my curiosity is piqued. 'What do you mean, “done something”?'
He ignores my question and goes on. 'This is a traditional place. We take care of our gardens. Finalists for Britain in Bloom years in a row back in the day. We all worked hard for what we had. It wasn't a place for the Wakefields to call home. How could it be?'
My fingers grip the teacup. 'I'm not sure.'
'It was their little girl.'
There isn't any question of who he is talking about. I glance out the window, but I can hardly see anything beyond the condensation between the sheets of glass. The only thing I can distinguish is the long stem of one of Vivienne's roses. Wild and left to their own devices, the thorns are now large and sharp. A gentle breeze outside causes them to scratch noisily against the window.
'Their girl,' Reg continues. His voice sounds odd now, bitter, with an edge of something else. 'Paige. All their worthless brats were horrible. She was no exception. The villagers all felt sorry for her when she was dead. But did that change what she was when she was alive?'
I want to be away from here. I want to get out of this filthy old house and this old man. Why didn't I just leave the shopping at the front door?
Reg lowers his voice to a whisper. 'There was a rumour they found her body buried in the forest, you know.'
An image is forced to the front of my mind. Eva. Her eyes open and glassy, staring straight at me, peering into my soul.
'I might have heard that rumour,' I say. 'I don't know. I was very little at the time. Listen, thank you very much for the tea, but I have to get going. Dad is expecting me.'
I set my barely touched cup down on the tray between us.
I reach down for my bag of shopping and have to brush off some dust that clings to the plastic. 'Listen, Reg. I wonder if maybe you should consider getting some help once in a while. You could get someone in to clean this place every week or so. It might take the pressure off you a little bit.'
'Eh? I am perfectly capable of looking after this house myself. My Viv would be proud of me, she would.'
'It is OK to get support. Dad uses a cleaner too – Penny. Do you know her? She works with her brother and I'm sure they would be happy to help you –'
'Ha! I wouldn't use them, that's for certain! I've had words with Tony, I have. But will he listen? After all these years, you would think he would trust me to recognise a bad apple ...'
He stares off across the room, as though watching something in his head.
'You mean, Penny?' I ask. 'What's wrong with her?'
I think of the odd feeling I get whenever I am around my Dad's friend. It wasn't my imagination – Reg knows something too.
I look uncertainly at him. 'Reg?'
The old man's eyes focus on the here and now again. For a moment, I am reminded of April's wake as Reg looks at me. He looks confused, as though he is surprised to find me in his living room.
'You were about to tell me something about Penny,' I prompt, leaning forward.
'Sorry, April, dear.'
He reaches across and squeezes my knee before he looks at the dusty clock above the fireplace. 'I'll have to get out to the shops, pick up some milk. They shut early on a Sunday, you see.'
He gets up from his chair.
I sigh. 'It's only Saturday. You've just come back from the shops.'
His eyes widen. 'And I didn't get the milk? I must be getting forgetful in my old age!'
He gives a short laugh and looks around for his shoes, humming to no particular tune.
I stand up too. Even though it feels like a futile act, even though I know Reg is too proud to ask for assistance, I endeavour once again to make the suggestion to him again anyway.
'Reg, I think you could do with some help. Maybe you could get someone to come in and just do a few things for you.'
His demeanour changes so quickly it frightens me. Even in a weakened state, the old man still stands at a much greater height than myself. It is more obvious than ever now.
His eyes are suddenly wild with rage. 'I won't have some meddler coming in here and poking their nose in where it doesn't belong ... rummaging through my private belongings ... Pilfer things when my back is turned, they will!'
It is very hard to imagine what things might have any value beneath all the dirt and grime, but I don't stay around to ponder it.
This visit has drained me. I feel so very tired.
Contemplating just how to help such a stubborn individual when they are so determined seems so impossible right now.
Besides, I have clearly outstayed my welcome and I make my excuses to leave.
It is a relief to get out into the bright sunshine outside. I take deep breaths of warm air, but the smell of must lingers in my throat and hair. My lungs must be full of it.
I am suddenly beset by the feeling of being watched again.
The wind passing through the trees sounds like a hushed whisper and I take the path back to the high street at a hurried walk, scared the voices will catch up with me.
20
'There you are,' Dad says when I get back. 'I was beginning to think you had forgotten where I lived. It wouldn't surprise me. This is such a rare visit.'
I tell Dad about my visit to Reg as he starts to get lunch ready. When I have finished, his brow is furrowed, but he shrugs as he selects himself a large cutting knife.
I feel much less fatigued now, much more motivated to take action now I am away from the decay of that musty old house. Why did I not try harder to talk Reg into getting some assistance?
'I worry about him too, Hannah,' Dad says. 'He has been deteriorating rapidly these past few months. He does seem to have gone downhill fast these past few weeks, though, I have to admit. The news of April must have hit him harder than I expected. I think seeing his nephew so grown up too has made him realise how old he is himself. The events of the funeral have troubled him so, too.'
'His nephew,' I say. 'I forgot about him.'
'Forget about that fellow – he doesn't care. He is only interested in getting his hands on that house of his Uncle's. He was saying when we saw him how much he would love to own one of these holiday homes in Little Bishopsford. That will be where Reg's house ends up – another conversion. Another home lost for a local family that wants to raise their children here.'
'Shouldn't you say something to Reg?'
'Oh, no. Reg isn't daft, but he won't disinherit him. Thinks family should come first. After these past few weeks, I can certainly understand what he means.'
I start slicing and buttering some crusty bread. 'Maybe you could just talk Reg into getting someone to help with his shopping,' I say. 'He is struggling to do it himself.'
'Hannah, it isn't like any of us haven't tried to help the man before. We all see him around the place. I drop in on him every now and then myself – I was there a couple of weeks ago when I told him about your sister – but as you said, he is stubborn. Won't let anyone in there to help him. He is adamant he doesn't want anyone to go through his things.'