The Girl Downstairs

by Iain Maitland

  “I’ve really missed Fluffy,” she says. “He was like a hot water bottle at night in my upstairs bedroom.”

  I look at her, not sure what to think. I wonder if she is indicating she wants to move back into the cottage itself. Maybe I think too much.

  Did she let Fluffy out? Drag him across fields and abandon him to his fate? Or did I just leave the back door open, and the back gate, and Fluffy went off to explore like he did in Rendlesham Forest all those years ago? And got himself lost.

  Thing is, I’m not certain. I think, maybe, I should give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Me too,” I say finally. Not sure what else to add.

  Widow Woman rat-a-tat-tats the knocker on the farmhouse door. I can see through the window at the side of the door into a homely-looking, old-fashioned kitchen of pine and dried flowers. It might have been fashionable thirty years or so ago.

  We stand there patiently. My heart feels as though it is rising towards my mouth. That it will choke the breath from me. The thought of seeing Fluffy is almost unbearable. And the hope that, when he sees us all, he will trot straight through to me in his excitement.

  There is no response. Even though the lights are on and we can hear a television somewhere in the distance – a living room or a dining room, maybe, behind the kitchen we are now all peering into.

  Silence. A long silence, other than the movements of the children’s restless feet. And the whining Labrador, who wants some food.

  And then, somewhere further up the driveway, behind the farmhouse and the farm shop, and beyond the barns and way back in the fields, I hear a whistling. Not my peep-peep-peep, peep-peep-peep, but something much like it.

  I move back onto the main part of the driveway to see up into the distance. The others follow and gather around me. And I see a figure far away in the fields but heading in this direction.

  A man.

  With a dog.

  My Fluffy.

  We all wait as the man and Fluffy come closer. It is some way. The man looks young, but seems to be walking with what looks like a stick. A shepherd’s crook might seem fanciful. Fluffy walks just behind in his footsteps, lifting one little leg at a time up and out of the snow and placing it carefully ahead of himself.

  I think this might be the young man with the bleached hair in the photo on the poster. He does not seem to be wearing a hat despite the cold. Just, I can see as he comes into view, a scarf and gloves and a big heavy coat. I need one like that rather than this thin old thing that’s seen better days.

  He sees us and lifts his stick. The children wave at him. As does Widow Woman. And she does too. Rosie.

  I do as well, caught up in the emotion of it all. Everyone, Widow Woman, the children and her, starts calling to Fluffy, encouraging him to run towards us. He remains as stoic as ever, walking step by careful step, as if concentrating hard, through the snow by the farmer’s side.

  The farmer hangs back and taps Fluffy lightly on the back with his stick, urging him forwards towards us.

  There is a moment when I think they will all rush at him. That I will be left at the back, waiting for them to finish making a fuss. But the little boy suddenly steps back, taking his sister by the hand and pulling her gently away. And Widow Woman and Rosie, to either side, do the same. They are respectful, and I am touched by it.

  And Fluffy walks stiffly through them all towards me – just as I had hoped – and I sink to my knees and fold my arms around him.

  My old pal is safe and well. And back with me again.

  I am filled suddenly with joy and happiness. And love.

  And the overwhelming desire to put all that has happened behind me and just live happily ever after.

  21

  Sunday, 1 December, 10.45 Am

  I want to get away and go home as soon as I can.

  But Widow Woman and Rosie are talking to the man with the bleached hair, and he is flush-faced by their attention.

  Asking him about Fluffy and what happened.

  And the man with the bleached hair, who is the youngest son of three sons of the couple who own the farm, is chatting away. I had always thought that farmers were dour and surly types. Not this one. He cannot stop himself. He tells Widow Woman about his older brothers, who are both at university, one just starting some farming course, the other soon to qualify as an accountant. He is doing his A Levels and does not know what he wants to do. He plays the guitar and would like to do something creative. He is, he says, artistic. He says he might like to be a tattoo artist.

  Rosie hangs on his every word.

  And he keeps glancing at her, more and more.

  I just want to go back to the cottage.

  Rosie, going all bashful, asks him how he found Fluffy. The boy with the bleached hair rolls off his well-prepared story. How he was coming back at 2 a.m. from a mate’s house up near the roundabout. Saw Fluffy in the field by the lane. Lost and without a collar. How he took Fluffy in and warmed him by the fire and fed him scraps of chicken. Came out the next morning with home-made posters, which he stuck on poles, fences and posts up and down the lane and beyond. Had put copies, smaller leaflets, through every letterbox, wherever he thought Fluffy might have come from.

  He swallows and looks at Rosie, and his face reddens at regular intervals.

  She looks back at him, all wide-eyed innocence. Says she was thinking of getting a tattoo done. On her ankle. A lizard or something. She has not decided.

  All I want to do is to turn around and go. To get back and make a proper fuss of Fluffy.

  Trying to bring the conversation to a close, I thank him and say I must give him something for his trouble. I reach into my pockets before realising all I have in one are my keys and binoculars and in the other a dirty tissue and a half-eaten packet of Polos. But he is already telling me that it’s no trouble, he’s enjoyed having Fluffy and would love to come and see him again sometime.

  At that, Rosie turns and smiles at me, as if to ask if it is okay to give him the address.

  Before I can answer, she is saying, “Three Bluebell Lane,” and starting to describe where it is and what the place looks like.

  He nods and smiles at her and says he knows where Bluebell Lane is and which one it is.

  And so we are leaving. Widow Woman and Rosie, with one final look at the boy with bleached hair, lead us away. Widow Woman dragging the fat old Labrador behind her. Then me, cuddling Fluffy in my arms, his head turned away from my face as if reproachful that I let him get lost. And finally, the children, all fidgeting and twitchy, either side of me and both reaching up to stroke Fluffy’s legs as often as they can.

  We get to the first field of the three we need to cross to get home. It is cold with a biting wind, but I seem to feel revived because of Fluffy’s return.

  Widow Woman and Rosie are again at the front, heads bowed close together, sharing thoughts and confidences. I think it will be stuff and nonsense about the bleached-hair boy.

  The little boy and small girl walk beside me as and when they can, jostling for position to hold my arms and to stroke Fluffy as much as possible. He ignores it all, his head held high and aloof in the wind. My little prince.

  I have to say I am rather taken with these children. Smitten, even. Their politeness and their manners (although he has sometimes had to move in to correct her). The way they stepped back so Fluffy could come to me. The fuss they are making of me now (even though it is as much about Fluffy as it is about me). I love their joie de vivre. They enthral me.

  “I love Fluffy,” the little boy says, taking hold of one of Fluffy’s back legs. The excitement is clear in his raised voice.

  “I love Fluffy,” echoes the small girl, anxious not to be left out. She cannot reach Fluffy, so holds her brother’s arm instead.

  “He loves you, too.” I smile down at them and waggle one of Fluffy’s front paws. Fluffy takes no notice, as if he is far too grand for any of this silliness.

  I put Fluffy down on the snowy path. He he
sitates for a moment and then walks on after Widow Woman and Rosie. He is a well-trained dog and has never really needed a lead for as long as I have had him. He seems to know how far to go ahead or fall behind. The small girl darts forward, stumbles and regains her balance, and grabs at Fluffy, trying to lift him up. The little boy moves to help or admonish her, I’m not sure which, and the two children hold Fluffy together in a clumsy embrace.

  “Let him down,” I say as jovially as I can. “You can then walk beside him for this next bit.”

  The path to the side of the field is wider here, although, truth be told, the snow blurs the edges of it into the field.

  Fluffy starts walking on slowly. As if he is rather put out at having to walk at all. The little boy and the small girl hurry to either side as though they are guarding him.

  I have a sudden urge to walk closer to the children, and maybe even put my arms around their shoulders in a warm embrace. I think perhaps, sometime, I could become more to them than just the man down the road with the dog. A friendly uncle, at least. I like the idea of Grandpa, too. And so I do. Move forward. Put my arms gently around them as if steadying and protecting them from falling over. They both turn and smile up at me. And my battered old heart softens a little more.

  We walk like this through the rest of the field, following in the footsteps of Widow Woman, the Labrador and Rosie.

  It is a moment of almost perfect bliss. I feel like Father Christmas with two happy children about to get sackfuls of presents. And it strikes me suddenly that, for once and at long last, Christmas might be rather fun this year.

  We all gather together at the end of the field and smile at each other. I can honestly say I haven’t felt as happy as this for a long time. Maybe even ever.

  Fluffy takes us forward into the second of the three fields, seeming sure of the way home. The boy and the girl take turns to march with him, one to the side, one behind.

  Widow Woman, after glances and smiles at me, tugs at the Labrador’s lead, and they follow next. Her coquettishness no longer irritates, but now amuses me. She has a nice smiley face. And she is a good woman at heart, I think. Even though she has the biggest arse I have ever seen in my life. I think it is the arse that has put me off her most. I must try to ignore it as best I can.

  Rosie walks beside me and, almost automatically, slips her arm into mine. I tense suddenly, at the unexpectedness of it, before relaxing. I am not sure if she has done it to stop herself slipping over or whether it is a gesture of affection. Either way, I do not mind so much.

  “I really missed Fluffy,” she says conversationally.

  “Uh-huh,” I reply neutrally.

  “I went out and spent ages looking for him. Looked everywhere. I never thought of the farm,” she adds, in a sad voice.

  I am not sure if she really did go searching nor, if she did, exactly when that was. But I am happy now, so I let it go. Anyhow, it is not that easy to talk on the snowy path, where we are both concentrating on walking and not falling over. I nod, and not sure if she saw the gesture or not, I pat her arm with my hand. We walk on, trudging after Fluffy and the children and Widow Woman and the Labrador.

  She says something or other about the farm and the boy with the bleached hair in a roundabout way. Like it’s something and nothing. I know it’s not. That it is a big deal to her.

  I make various approving noises, suspecting that, at some point, she’s going to ask if he can come round.

  “I’ve decided not to do a cookery course,” she then adds. “I’m not terribly good at it. I’ve had a tummy ache for ages.”

  And I realise that this – her not terribly good cooking – may have been why I felt so ill overnight, and still do, in all honesty. My excitement at finding Fluffy – that burst of adrenaline – has kept me going so far and for so long. But my clothes are stiff and stuck to me with sweat. I think I probably smell really bad as well. And I need the toilet, too. At least she has acknowledged it. And I think perhaps I overreacted when I was first struck down. My mind playing tricks with me.

  She says something else about the farmhouse and the boy with the bleached hair, as though she is just making polite conversation. I know it is more than that. Much more.

  So I reply that he can come round and see Fluffy in a day or two. Maybe have his tea with us. They can take Fluffy for a walk together. She seems pleased as punch.

  And I add that if she wants to sort out a course or something, we can have a talk about how she might do that.

  And as we get towards the far side of the second field and everyone is waiting there for us, she turns towards me and smiles. I think for a moment that she might just lean forward and kiss me on the cheek. Like a daughter would do. And I will hug her. Like a dad would do. But instead she reaches into my pocket and takes out my front door key. “Bagsy the first bath!” she says, laughing.

  And I laugh back.

  We are at peace.

  At last.

  Rosie heads across the third and final field towards Bluebell Lane and the cottage. To home. Our home.

  Followed by the two children and Fluffy.

  Leaving me to bring up the rear with Widow Woman and the Labrador.

  “Rosie’s taken a shine to Luke,” Widow Woman says, referring to the bleach-haired boy. I had not caught his name, in the excitement of the moment.

  “Yes,” I reply conversationally, trying hard to keep the breathlessness out of my voice. It has been a long walk through the snow and ice, and I have not felt that well. I am tiring now rather badly. I may have to stop. I feel dizzy.

  We walk along slowly for a while in our companionable silence. Chuckling to ourselves at the way the two children keep pushing by each other to walk with Fluffy.

  We seem to walk slower as they pull further and further ahead of us.

  “I’ve said he … Luke … can come round and see Fluffy in a day or two,” I tell her. “Maybe stay and have his tea.” I stop for a minute to get my breath. I am out of puff. And my head is fuzzy.

  “You’re playing Cupid!” she says, stopping too. She gives me a funny look, and I wonder if I have something stuck on my face. Perhaps some dried vomit from the early hours. But it is an affectionate look, really. I’ve not had many of those over the years. If at all.

  “Well,” I reply, not sure what to add. “Anyway … he seems a nice boy.”

  We start walking again. She takes my arm and holds it until we come towards the edge of the final field. We have fallen some way behind. And I wonder if she has engineered this moment so that we can be alone together for a while.

  “I was talking to Rosie, and she said she would be happy to babysit for Conor and Bella one night.”

  There is a long pause.

  “Oh yes?” I say.

  “If we wanted to go out.”

  She looks at me again, and there is a kind of hopefulness in her face. As though she really wants me to say Yes, I’d love to.

  “Yes,” I reply with feeling. “I’d love to.”

  She smiles widely. And I wonder if she is expecting me to lean forward and kiss her. I feel I should do something. So I sort of untangle her arm and go to pat her on the back. She seems to think I am going to put my arms around her and draw her in for a passionate embrace, so she lurches forward.

  We compromise and settle for an awkward hug. I keep my hand on her back for longer than I would have expected.

  It has been a long and winding road, but I feel now that I am in a good place. And there are better times to come.

  We walk into Bluebell Lane and head for home. And I wonder again what Christmas will be like this year. I think it might be really rather lovely. Just the happiest Christmas ever.

  Epilogue

  We hear the screaming at the same instant.

  Widow Woman and I.

  First one child. Then the other. I cannot tell which is which.

  I am the faster of the two of us. Although, in wellington boots on snow and ice, it is more of a stomp than a run. />
  Widow Woman lags behind. I glance back and see her reaching inside her coat pocket for her mobile phone.

  These are not screams of surprise, nor of childish drama. They are screams of fear and terror.

  The screams come from the cottage.

  I had assumed Rosie would return there. The little boy and the small girl carrying on to Widow Woman’s bungalow.

  But they have not.

  They have all gone together into the cottage.

  I push back the half-open front door, moving into the hallway.

  The cellar door is open.

  I move into the kitchen.

  Rosie stands by the sink with Fluffy at her feet. Her left arm is around the shoulders of the small girl. Her right arm is resting on the little boy’s left shoulder. The children are both crying and shaking as they look at me.

  I stand still and look back at them.

  “What?” I say.

  “They wanted to come in and play hide-and-seek with me,” she says, with such anger in her voice. “They went to hide in the cellar. And found Andrew Lumb’s body.”

  It happens so fast.

  Widow Woman is behind me. She sees and hears and presses 999 on her mobile phone. Starts babbling away incoherently about a dead body.

  I step forward and pick up the hammer that’s hidden on the chair under the kitchen table. An instinctive reaction, that’s all. No more, no less.

  Rosie turns towards the block of knives on the side.

  Pulls out the biggest knife of all.

  Steps forward. One. Two. Three movements.

  I look down at my tatty old coat.

  The knife handle is sticking out of me, the blade inside.

  I see the horror on the children’s faces. I notice, for some reason, how much they look alike. It’s the eyes.

  I sink down to my knees.