I laugh. It’s nice. It feels like the first time we’ve been together without bickering over who did what or whose turn it is to sort the boys out for months. Years, even.
I snuggle in closer to him. ‘Me too.’ I look up at him. ‘And that thing with Hervé? Did she seriously expect me to have sex with him?’
He looks back at me. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe she was trying to shock you. Though she was certainly all over him all night, wasn’t she?’
I trail my hand lightly across his stomach. ‘What if I’d said yes? What would you have done?’
He suddenly flips me over onto my back, lifting himself up so that he can look down at me. I can feel he is already hard. ‘I’d have killed him,’ he says in a low voice, as he thrusts into me for the first time in months.
14
September, Mozène
Aura
A few hours later I wake with a start. I look at the clock – it’s gone 3 a.m. I assume one of the boys must have woken me but now I can’t hear anything at all. I get out of bed and cross the landing to their room. The shutters on our bedroom window are too rotten to use and we don’t have any proper curtains yet – only makeshift ones of blankets hung over old curtain rails where we need them. The moon must be almost full as it’s quite light on the landing and the old mullioned windows cast a criss-cross pattern on the rickety floorboards. The floor is freezing cold and I wish I’d bothered to put my slippers on.
I creep into the boys’ room and I’m surprised to find they’re both still asleep. I feel a pang of regret; I miss them being in our bed. But Nick insisted that if we were to make a go of things, that was what had to happen. In spite of what went on in London, I want us to stay together. It’s best for the boys and, quite frankly, best for me too. I need to make Nick see it’s best for him too. I’m sure it is.
I kiss Bay’s forehead and smooth back his hair. He snuffles in his sleep and then settles again. Sorrel’s squirrel has fallen out of his bed so I pick it up and put it back in his arms. He reflexively shifts it to his cheek and starts sucking his finger. I kiss his forehead too and move to the end of the bed to where I can see them both.
My heart swells. My boys. They are my world and I would do anything for them. Drinking them in once more, I turn away to go back to our room. But my foot hits something soft.
Thinking it must be a teddy bear or toy, I bend down to pick it up.
And then I scream.
Your funeral is the worst day of my life. They say that funerals are for the living, don’t they? To help us gain closure? Not for me. As I watch the pink balloons being released into the sky and floating away while your far-too-young body is lowered into the ground, my grief gives way to anger. There is no closure here. You should have lived. Grown up. Had a family if you’d wanted to. It isn’t right that your life was ended so prematurely. I will never forget. I will never forgive. Never.
15
September, Mozène
Aura
Both boys instantly wake up and start screaming too.
Nick appears at the door in his boxer shorts, bleary-eyed and dishevelled-looking. ‘Christ, Aura, what’s all the noise?’ he snaps, flicking the light on.
My hand flies to my mouth and I point at the mess on the floor. The boys’ eyes follow my finger and their screams redouble when they see what’s there.
‘Bunny!’ Sorrel shrieks. ‘Dead bunny!’
I sit next to him on the bed and take him in my arms. ‘Ssshhh, darling, it’s OK,’ I soothe, but really, it is far from OK. What the fuck is it doing here?
Nick scoops up Bay and strokes his head. ‘It’s OK, Bay. A cat must have brought it in. You remember how we saw some cats in the garden? It must have been one of those.’
Poor Bay is so tired his head almost instantly starts drooping onto Nick’s shoulder. Nick puts him back into bed, tucks his little duvet around him and turns the light off. Sorrel is still shrieking; God knows how Bay can sleep with that noise going on.
‘A cat?’ I say to Nick. ‘What cat?’
He holds up his hand. ‘I don’t know!’ he snaps. ‘A cat. Does it matter? I’ll get a binbag and get rid of the rabbit and then maybe we can all finally get some sleep.’
I sit rocking Sorrel and his shrieks gradually subside into sobs. He buries his head in my lap so that he can’t see the half-eaten rabbit with its glassy eye seemingly staring at me, even in the semi-darkness.
I don’t see how a cat could have brought the rabbit in. We close and lock all the doors at night. Frank was telling me how he doesn’t normally bother to lock up as he feels so safe out here in the countryside and that nothing ever happens. But I’m used to living in town – it would take a long time for me to feel safe leaving my doors open. It’s hard to imagine I ever would.
Maybe a window was left open. Some of the catches are very old. It would probably be easy for a cat to find their way in, if they wanted to.
Yes, that must be it, I tell myself. How else could it have happened?
I hear Nick climb the stairs and go back into our room without a glance towards us. Sorrel is still whimpering. ‘Hey, Sol, tell you what,’ I whisper. ‘Why don’t I stay here with you for the rest of tonight?’ If Nick can’t be bothered to come back and check on his sons, I don’t see why I should share his bed. Such a shame after what happened earlier – I hadn’t felt so close to Nick for ages.
Sorrel snuggles against me, his finger still in his mouth, and we curl up together under the duvet.
16
September, Mozène
Aura
I barely sleep a wink; partly because I want to stay awake to enjoy the now-novel feeling of Sorrel’s hot little body cuddled up to mine, the gentle thock-thock noise as he sucks his finger in his sleep and the little-boy smell of his hair. But I can’t stop thinking about the rabbit and am almost grateful when Sol wakes at six (as usual) and we can get up and go down for breakfast.
He and Bay seem full of the joys of spring and not remotely upset by what happened last night. Obviously I don’t mention it to them and I’m grateful that they seem to have forgotten about it already.
But I have not forgotten about it. The more I think about it, the less likely it seems that a cat brought the rabbit in. I haven’t seen a cat come into the house once, and even if it did, why would it drag a half-eaten creature up a flight of stairs?
Maybe Nick is right – maybe there is a simple explanation. But the fact that it was left in the boys’ room makes it seem all the more sinister to me.
I shake myself. I’m being ridiculous. It had to have been a cat, or a fox, or something like that. These things happen. Like Frank said when the boys saw that dead rabbit in the garden, we’ll have to get used to this sort of thing now we’re living in the country, won’t we? Can’t go around being all squeamish about things.
Nick seems to have treated himself to a lie-in as there’s no sign of him yet. Helen coming down for breakfast is a welcome distraction. She sits at the table and helps Bay feed himself his porridge without me needing to ask her, and pulls faces at Sorrel to make him laugh.
‘Did you sleep well, Helen?’ I ask, putting down the pot of tea and a mug in front of her. I’ve even put the milk in a little jug as part of my quest to become the perfect French hostess.
‘Like a log,’ she says. ‘It’s so peaceful here, I love it. Did you?’
Seb and Chloe enter, fully dressed and already filming. Shit – I’m still in my dressing gown. Why have they started so early today? Are they trying to catch me out?
They’ve told us many times that when they’re filming we should try to entirely ignore them and not acknowledge their presence if possible, so I do so, though planning to get out of the kitchen and get dressed ASAP. I don’t want to be appearing on camera looking like this.
I sigh. ‘Not really. I’m surprised you didn’t hear us – there was a bit of a commotion.’ I mouth: ‘A cat brought a dead rabbit in.’
I see Chloe smirk. I ignore he
r. ‘Oh dear,’ Helen says. ‘That must have been upsetting.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree. ‘Not the best. But never mind – onwards and upwards! Is it OK if I leave you in charge of the boys again this morning? Do you have any ideas for activities?’
‘It looks like it’ll be a lovely day – I thought maybe we could go for a walk? I might take them down to the river. Is it OK if I get some bits and pieces together for sandwiches – I thought maybe we could have a picnic?’
‘Yes, that sound perfect, thank you!’ I struck gold with Helen. I can’t believe we don’t even have to pay her. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll get dressed and then get on with some clearing out.’
With the boys out of the way, I change into some old clothes and start ferrying junk out of the downstairs room which I hope will eventually become the breakfast room for the chambres d’hôtes. It’s a beautiful, light room (or at least it will be once it’s all been cleaned up) with three French windows leading out on to an old patio with cracked paving stones. It’s calming, soothing work, and some of the stuff I find in there is amazing. Much is simply rubbish – there are endless broken toys, a scary Chucky-style doll, old shoes and countless rancid supermarket shopping bags, but I also uncover a mirror with a gilt frame which could almost certainly be cleaned up and hung somewhere, and a pretty armoire with a broken door which I’m sure can be fixed.
Frank arrives mid-morning. I wasn’t expecting him and, bearing in mind what Tiggy said, I wonder if I should ask him to call ahead next time. But I can’t think of a way of saying that to him without being rude and I don’t want to do that when he has been so kind to me. Plus it is good to have him around when there is so much to do – he always seems happy to help with anything.
‘How was your little coffee morning with Tiggy?’ he asks as we carry on sorting through the debris in the room together.
‘It was good, thank you,’ I say. ‘She seems like a nice woman. Not at all like I thought she was when I … first met her. I hope we can be friends.’ I pause. ‘But how do you know about that?’ I ask.
He waves his hand. ‘Dunno. Can’t remember. I guess she mentioned it when I bumped into her sometime – I often see her at the boulangerie. And Tiggy is a nice woman, but …’ He tails off, pretending to be fascinated by an old car door he’s just unearthed under some manky old cushions.
‘But what?’ I ask.
He lifts the car door – why on earth is it in here? – carries it across the room, through the doors and deposits it in the skip outside.
‘Oh, nothing, shouldn’t gossip,’ he says, picking up a box of old bottles. ‘Skip or recycling?’ he asks.
‘Recycling,’ I say. ‘Could you put the box to one side of the skip for now and I’ll get Nick to move it later. But what were you going to say about Tiggy?’
He sighs. ‘Well, if you insist, I was only going to say don’t be surprised if she’s your best mate for a while and then suddenly drops you. She’s got form for that.’ His tone is bitter and biting. It’s not a way I’ve heard him speak before. ‘She doesn’t have a nice word to say about anyone – you shouldn’t believe everything she says about other people. And don’t be surprised if she’s saying stuff about you behind your back.’
His cheeks colour and he turns away, pretending to be looking through a box of ancient VHS tapes.
‘Um, OK, thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,’ I say, wondering what Tiggy’s done to him to spark such vitriol.
We continue sorting the room in silence.
17
September, Mozène
Aura
As usual, our night is not unbroken. Nick remains blissfully asleep as I go in to tend to Sorrel, as usual, when I hear him crying out.
‘Sol? What is it?’ I say, sitting on his bed and stroking his hair.
‘Voices talk me,’ he says.
Oh God. I thought this had gone away since Helen and he made the ‘dreamcatcher’. The dreamcatcher is a hideous concoction of bent coat hangers and old feathers which hangs from the ceiling and quite frankly terrifies me when I catch sight of it at night. But for Sorrel it seemed to have stopped the complaints of ‘noises in his room’ in their tracks. Until tonight.
‘What voices, Sol? I’m sure it was only a bad dream.’
‘Nasty voices.’
‘What did they say?’
Sorrel shakes his head. ‘Can’t tell.’
I feel a lurch of alarm. I turn his face gently to look at mine. ‘Sorrel, did someone ask you to keep a secret? Because we’ve talked about this before. If a grown-up tells you to keep a secret, it’s always wrong, and you must always let Mummy or Daddy know straight away. Especially Mummy. Always. You won’t be in trouble.’
He turns away and I feel his head move against my chest in a shaking motion.
‘No secret,’ he says.
I squeeze him tighter. ‘OK. That’s good. We don’t like secrets. Then why can’t you tell me?’
‘Scared.’
‘Don’t be scared, Sol. Things are always less scary when you tell someone.’
He shakes his head again and buries his face further into my chest.
‘Come on, Sol. If you tell me what the voices said, I’ll let you have ice cream after dinner tomorrow.’ I know bribery isn’t the best form of parenting, but I figure that if he tells me about his nightmare, it’ll be the first step in being able to let it go. I learnt about it on my counselling course.
He sticks his finger in his mouth. ‘Be scared,’ he says again, taking his finger out of his mouth just long enough to say the words.
‘You’ll be scared?’
He takes his finger out of his mouth again briefly and says, ‘No. Mummy be scared.’
I squeeze him tight. ‘Aw, Sol. I’m a grown-up! I won’t be scared, I promise. Mummies are never scared. It’s our superpower.’ That’s exactly the kind of thing we were taught not to say on my course but whatever, Sorrel is a child, not a client.
‘No, Mummy!’ he says, louder and exasperated. ‘Voice say it. Be scared. Your mummy be scared.’
He puts his finger back in his mouth and rests his head against my chest.
I stroke his hair again and make sshhing noises. It must have been a nightmare.
I am finally drifting back to sleep when the lights suddenly come on in our bedroom. I sit up and shake Nick awake.
‘Nick! The lights are on. What’s happening?’
He eyes me grumpily, still half-asleep. ‘What do you mean? Turn them off then.’
‘No, Nick! I mean they came on by themselves.’
He gets out of bed, squinting in the brightness, and flicks the switch. The lights go off and he throws himself into bed. ‘There. Problem solved. Now can I please get some sleep?’
He has his back to me, but I flick my bedside lamp on and shake his shoulder. He turns onto his back and puts his hands over his eyes. ‘Aura, please, I’m knackered. Can’t this wait till the morning?’
‘No, it can’t. I’m scared. Something’s going on.’
He sighs, turns towards me and props himself up on one elbow.
‘What do you mean? What’s going on?’
‘Come on. The dead rabbit. The music. The lights. And then Sorrel woke up earlier and told me that a voice in his room said I should be scared. It’s not the first time he’s said he’s heard voices either. Or at least noises.’
He throws himself back on his pillows. ‘You’re a bit old to believe in ghosts, aren’t you?’
I pause. ‘Spirits. It could be spirits. Maybe someone who lived in the house in the past and doesn’t want us here.’
He pulls a face. ‘Seriously? Really, Aura … you can’t possibly believe that.’
‘You must see that something like this happening nearly every night isn’t normal!’ Tears spring to my eyes and my voice wobbles. ‘I think someone is trying to scare us. If not spirits, then … someone else.’
He touches my arm. ‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And why would they want to?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know that either.’
He pulls me over to him so that I can put my head down on his chest. Apart from the other night, it’s been a long time since we’ve lain like this. Maybe coming to France was a good idea for our marriage after all.
‘The rabbit was brought in by a cat,’ Nick says patiently. ‘The music was most likely someone accidentally setting an alarm, or a power surge making that device misfire. Same for the lights – the electrics in the house are ancient and dodgy – you know we’re going to have to replace the entire system before we can open our doors to paying guests? It’s going to cost a fortune. And Sorrel’s always been prone to nightmares, hasn’t he? That’s all the “voices” are. None of this is a big deal.’
I move away so I can look at him. ‘Don’t you think it’s all rather a coincidence, though? All this weird stuff going on since … since the film crew arrived. I’m wondering if they’re doing this to try to make out the place is haunted. Make their programme more interesting.’
He frowns. ‘I can’t see they’d do that. They seem like nice kids, and surely there are rules around that kind of thing? They were very clear that they were only filming what we’re doing and not intervening in any way.’
‘Yes, but maybe we’re not interesting enough and they’ve decided they want to shake things up a bit.’
‘I don’t think so. But if you’re worried, we could talk to them about it?’
I look at him in horror. ‘No! We can’t go accusing them! Imagine if we’re wrong. No, I’m just going to keep an eye and see if …’
‘See if what?’
‘I don’t know!’ I say, exasperated. ‘I don’t understand why any of this is happening or if it’s them, how they’d do it. I’m just going to … watch them more closely, I guess.’
The Chateau Page 7