Lily's House

by Cassandra Parkin

  “Rosemary,” she says. “Good for cooking with. And for sweet dreams and happy memories.”

  For some time now, I’ve thought Lily may be a witch. She seems the right age, and she knows a lot about herbs and plants. She has recipes that she keeps secret no matter how often she’s asked, and she has a store of poisonous bottles that live on the top shelf of her pantry, which I’m forbidden to ever touch. Photographic supplies, she tells me when I ask, there’s not much room in the cellar darkroom, but she might simply be saying that to put me off the scent. On the other hand, she doesn’t have a cat, and she goes to church every Sunday.

  “Why do I call you Lily?” I ask suddenly.

  She laughs. “Because that’s my name.”

  “Yes, but why don’t I call you Granny, or something?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve just always called me Lily. I can’t imagine you calling me anything else now. Unless you want to change.”

  “No. I like Lily. I just wondered.”

  The cat clutches imploringly at my arm with velvety paws splintered with needles. I return to stroking its side.

  “Why don’t you have a cat?”

  “Cats are a nuisance.” Nonetheless she bends down and runs her hand over it, even as she shakes her head in disdain. “Look at it. As if it’s been hit in the face with a frying pan.” The cat writhes blissfully as Lily caresses its cheek. “It’s time I started getting lunch ready. Are you coming too? Or do you want to stay and talk to the cat?”

  I blink. I can see the entrance to the gravel drive, I’m less than two minutes from the safety of Lily’s front door, but no one in my family has trusted me to be by myself, inside the house or out of it, since the world turned silent.

  “Am I allowed?”

  “Of course, if you want to. Do you want to?”

  “Did Mum say I could?”

  “She didn’t say you couldn’t.”

  “But, will I be safe?”

  “You’ll be fine. You’ve got your head screwed on right. I’ll leave the door on the latch.”

  “But what if something happens to me?” I ask, not because I think something will actually happen to me but because I want to know her answer.

  “Nothing will happen to you. But if it does, I’ll know, and I’ll come straight back and fetch you. You come home when you’re ready.”

  I continue petting the cat and watch her stride up the road, tall and brisk and confident. It would be a disaster if she turned around, checking I’m not jumping into the road or eating poisonous berries or climbing into a van with a stranger, or any of the other patently silly things an adult might think I’m going to do. But she turns into the driveway without looking back, and I sigh in satisfaction. Only a witch could possibly know if I’m all right without watching me. And only a witch’s granddaughter could be left alone, outside, to continue seducing the cat that may, with time, become her own familiar.

  I count to a hundred in my head, going as slowly as I can to give Lily time to go inside, climb the stairs, go through her own front door and begin bustling about the kitchen. Then I walk stealthily up the road. When I reach the driveway, I press into the wall so I can’t be seen from Lily’s windows, and keep to the shadows. I’m going to find out how Lily watches over me even when I’m not there. The downstairs front door is propped open to let the hallway breathe the flowery morning air. Before I climb the stairs, I take off my socks and shoes.

  Lily’s door is on the latch, exactly as she promised. Opening the door by myself is a new skill and I’m pleased when I manage it. I wedge it carefully open with my shoe so it won’t make noise when it closes, and pad down the corridor into the kitchen.

  A chicken sits pink and chilly in a Pyrex dish, waiting for its coat of butter and greaseproof paper. On the table, a mound of potatoes will soon be peeled and boiled, ready for roasting. But Lily herself stands motionless, gazing at the shivering surface of a bowl of clean water, her expression stern, her attention turned inwards. I laugh in delight.

  “Hello, my darling.” Lily holds her hands out to me. “I thought you were on your way back. Oh, for goodness sakes, look who came with you.”

  I want to ask if the bowl is like a magic mirror, but I follow her pointing finger and find the cat’s followed me home. When I stroke it, it closes its eyes and quivers its tail in bliss.

  “Well, as long as you don’t feed it,” says Lily, and picks up a potato.

  Chapter Three – Wednesday

  I wake to sunshine and freshness and a bone-deep sensation of well-being that’s instantly cancelled by the sight of Marianne, pale and frantic, standing by my bed in her pyjamas.

  “Mum,” she says. “Mum.”

  “What?” Has she been sleepwalking? Did she wake lost in a strange house, flailing and screaming, trapped in the horror of some private nightmare? Is she hurt? How did I sleep through the monitor?

  She’s so upset she can hardly speak. “Something awful.”

  “What? What?” I scrabble out from beneath the heavy sheets. “Tell me! Are you hurt? What happened? Where did you wake up?”

  “I was dreaming,” says Marianne. “I was in bed and I dreamed I could hear a little cat crying somewhere. It was so loud it woke me up.”

  “But I didn’t see the monitor flash. Why didn’t the monitor flash?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you so I unplugged it.” She flaps impatiently at my objections. “No, please, you’ve got to listen. I was hungry and I thought it would be all right to look in the pantry. And I found… oh, Mum, I found…”

  She stands straight and tall. Her bones seem intact. There are no visible cuts or bruises. My heart slows down. Perhaps this is something else entirely. I stroke her arm gently. “Calm down. Take a minute. Deep breaths. Now look at me. Go slowly. Tell me what you found.” My phone sits reproachfully on the nightstand, reminding me of my other responsibilities. I reach for it, tap out a hasty message: Morning husband, just checking in so you know we made it through the night, love you xxxxx then turn back to Marianne.

  She shakes her head miserably and leads me into the kitchen. I’m frantic to know what’s drained the colour from Marianne’s face and turned her hands into clutching claws, but still the scent of the pantry tempts me back into memories of the well-beloved past. Cool and very slightly damp. Hints of vanilla and biscuits, jam and trifle, clotted cream whipped with the rich skimmings from Jersey milk, and long-ago Victoria sponge cakes. Stolen chocolate and hastily devoured glacé cherries; the confounding mystery of the guilty pleasure. I force myself to stay in the present, and follow Marianne’s imperious finger.

  The space beneath the bottom shelf is home to such dull necessities as the carrier-bag holder, the washing powder and the old-lady breakfast cereals Lily favoured. I always wanted to believe that, when alone, she ate in the same fantastical and luxurious way that she liked to feed me: tender miniature roasts with thick gravy brewed on the back of the stove, afternoon cakes on dainty plate stands, cream with a thick gold crust concealing rich silk beneath, and a propensity to grow mould if eaten too slowly. It takes me several seconds to realise what Marianne’s pointing at.

  “Oh, shit,” I say before I can stop myself, and see Marianne’s anxiety release itself in a spasm of laughter. “Sorry. Sorry. Forget I said that.” I pick up the box of cat biscuits. “Oh God.”

  Marianne is picking up on my distress like a radio antenna. The laughter vanishes. Her face is shrivelled misery.

  “Her poor cat,” she says, swiping fiercely at her tears. “Her poor, poor cat.”

  “Now stop it. We don’t know for sure she even had a cat. She might have had a visiting cat and got biscuits in for it.” Except she wouldn’t have bought biscuits for a visiting cat. As long as you don’t feed it.

  “She’s got cat litter too.” Marianne drags the bag out to show me. “You don’t buy that for a visiting cat, you only buy cat litter if it’s your cat. She had a cat and it’s been all on its own and it must have died or got lost
and thought she didn’t love it any more, it must have been so sad and confused—”

  “Stop that. We don’t know that. We don’t. Maybe she got someone to take it to a cattery.”

  “Then why didn’t the solicitor say anything? He would have known, there’d be a bill to pay. That’s not what happened, Mum. You don’t have to try and make me feel better, I’m old enough to be treated like a grown-up. It’s been shut in all alone and it’s died, hasn’t it?”

  When she really gets hold of a subject, Marianne is a bit like a solicitor herself.

  “Of course it hasn’t been shut in and died,” I say, realising as I say the words that they must be true. “There’s no way there’s a dead cat in here with us. We’d know.”

  “So where is it, then? Was it outside and it couldn’t get back in, and now it’s a poor lost stray cat? It must be so frightened.” She stops suddenly and turns her head. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  Her eyes are black with terror. She lives so much on her nerves. No wonder she’s so thin. “I heard the front door. Someone’s coming in.”

  “There can’t be. We’ve got the keys.”

  “Mum! I swear! There’s someone coming in! What are we going to do?”

  I take a step towards the kitchen. Marianne tries to go first, but I shake my head and push her firmly behind me. Whatever bogeyman my daughter’s conjured up, there’s no way I’m going to make her face up to them, and most especially not in her pyjamas, which she’s cobbled together by pairing my old black camisole with some Superman boxer shorts Daniel got for Christmas in a pub Secret Santa, and that are far too small for him. Let her imaginary monsters face the full wrath of an angry half-wakened mama bear, in her grandmother’s nightgown and with her hair around her face in a wild tangle. On impulse, I pick up a marble rolling pin and stalk through the sitting room. It’s so heavy and unbalanced I have to support it with my spare hand. It’s surely the most useless weapon imaginable. Any minute now the handle will snap.

  To my enormous surprise, there is a man in Lily’s hallway.

  He’s old and tall, and has that way of holding himself that people describe as ‘military’. His hair’s thick and white, clipped short against his scalp. He wears a crisp white shirt and formal navy trousers. The shirt is buttoned right to the top and I suspect he wears a tie most of the time, although not today. Clearly, housebreaking isn’t an activity that demands his very best sartorial efforts. He smells of Imperial Leather soap. His eyes are blue, still bright. In his day he must have been quite a looker. It doesn’t matter on any rational level, but I’d still prefer, on balance, to be greeting him with a sight other than my frowsty, unwashed face, my unbrushed hair, and my grandmother’s nightgown. I find time for all of these thoughts in the moments when we stand and stare at each other. He looks far more shocked than me. His eyes widen and his mouth works, and he holds his hands up as if to defend himself.

  “Who are you?” I demand, brandishing my rolling pin. I’m not seriously planning to use it, in fact I can barely even hold the thing, but perhaps this isn’t as obvious as I think because the man looks terrified. His eyes are huge and his hands are trembling. Encouraged, I shake the rolling pin in his direction. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He swallows hard and takes a few steps back. Is he old enough that I need to worry about his heart? His gaze moves to a spot over my shoulder, staring as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Marianne must have followed me.

  “Get out, get out, get out,” I say, feeling as if I’m shooing a cat. “I mean it. I’ll hit you with this, I swear. Go on. Out. Out!”

  He swallows hard and squares his shoulders. Intriguingly, his expression is now one of outrage. Instead of slinking away in embarrassment, he’s yelling right back at me. His face turns red, but I can’t follow a word.

  “Stop talking.” I hold up my hand. “I didn’t get any of that. Slow down and speak clearly.” Marianne touches my arm. “Marianne, go and wait in the kitchen.”

  “I said,” he repeats, “I suppose you’re Lily’s ungrateful little granddaughter?”

  Charming.

  “That’s me. Which means I’m entitled to be here, and you’re not. How dare you come in here?”

  “How dare you come in here? All those years you never visited. Broke her heart, you know that?”

  Who is this man who thinks he can come in here and judge me? Suddenly it’s difficult to breathe. I’m filled with the kind of wild fury that gives women the strength to lift tow trucks with their bare hands and tear the heads off bears.

  “And now,” he continues, “now you waltz in like you own the place—”

  “I do own the place,” I say, although I’m not sure of this. Is it like the monarchy? Did Lily’s home become mine the second she died? Or are her assets currently in unowned limbo? “Why do you care? Did you want her to leave it to you?” I’m only saying this to annoy him, but maybe he had a reason to think she might. Who is he? Who? Am I supposed to know him?

  “Not been gone a week. And now here you are. Like a rat creeping in. It was her only bloody consolation, you know. Knowing you’d come back down here eventually, even if she had to die to make it happen.”

  Well, that certainly sounds like Lily.

  “She was a wonderful woman,” he continues. “Worth twenty of you.”

  “She was a—” I suddenly remember that Marianne is behind me. “I was her granddaughter. You don’t need to tell me what she was like. What? What?”

  He’s staring at my hand. During the night, I must have got out of bed and slipped Lily’s square-cut sapphire ring – its inky central stone bordered with tiny brilliant diamonds, its shank stretched thin and wide to slide over her poor arthritic knuckles – onto my right index finger. The sight pierces me. I fight a childish urge to put my hand behind my back.

  “Couldn’t wait to get your hands on her things,” he says, with grim satisfaction. “Makes me feel ill.”

  I swallow my memories and raise my chin. “It looks better on me than it would on you. Whoever you are.”

  “Mum.” Marianne tugs at my sleeve to get my attention and I turn away from my opponent so I can look at her. Her hands are trembling. “Mum. I’m going to call the police. Okay?”

  “No, you’re not,” I say out loud.

  “No, she’s not what?” The man glares. “Bloody rude to talk so other people can’t understand you.”

  “Really? Because people do it to me all the time. And, d’you know, some of them don’t even introduce themselves?”

  “James Moon,” he barks at me, and in spite of himself, I see his right arm twitch as if he wants to shake hands. “I live downstairs. Been keeping an eye since – since she was taken badly. And if you’re wondering why I’ve got a key, I’ll tell you. Lily gave me it. Looked out for each other, we did, since you turned your back on her. I used to tell her, Lily, don’t you leave a penny to that brat grandchild of yours, she doesn’t deserve it. You give it to—”

  “You?”

  “—bloody charity, if you like, but don’t let her see a penny.”

  “She didn’t listen, though, did she?” I say cheerfully. “She was a horrible stubborn old witch, you see, and there was a good reason why I never came to visit, not that I have to explain that to you. What with you being a random intruder in my legal property.”

  James suddenly looks old and exhausted, and I feel the thrill of victory in my veins.

  “Bet you haven’t even thought about a funeral,” he says, apparently with difficulty. “Helped yourself to her jewellery, all her private things, but not one second’s thought to a decent send-off. Even wearing her bloody nightgown.”

  I drop the rolling pin on the floor, tug the nightgown over my head and crumple it into a ball. His eyes widen in shock for a second, then close tight. A flush of crimson crawls up his neck.

  “Here.” I hold it out towards him. “Would you like it?”

  My en
emy’s silenced. The capricious power of the female form. I’d like to think it’s my ineffable loveliness when naked, but it’s more likely to be simple terror.

  “Maybe you’d like me to wash it first?”

  “You’re not right in the head,” he says, backing away towards the door, his eyes still tightly shut.

  “Leave the key on the console table,” I tell him.

  “Like hell I will.” His hand finds the door handle and scrabbles for freedom.

  “I’ll send you a copy of her will, if you like!” I shout after him as he finally gets the door open and makes his escape. “So you can see how much she left me!”

  The door quivers in its frame, and I wince, worrying about the paintwork. On the plus side, he’s gone and I’ve won.

  I open the door again and find, as I’d hoped, that James Moon has left his key in the lock. It’s slightly stiff to turn, new-looking and raw. Lily was always careful about keys. In all the years she lived here, this spare can hardly have been used.

  The air is cool against my skin and I remember I’m naked. I shut the door hastily and put Lily’s nightgown back on. When I emerge from the top of the crisp frail cotton, I see Marianne looking at me.

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Which bit?” I wonder if James Moon has got home yet. Perhaps he can hear us moving about above him.

  “All of it! You were amazing!” Her hands are shaking and I can hardly make out what she’s saying. “When he started shouting at you and calling you names, and you just shouted right back at him. I was so scared. Weren’t you scared?”

  “Of course I wasn’t scared. Why would I be?”

  “He might have hurt us! Or killed us. Or tied us up so he could steal things.”

  Surprisingly enough, none of this even occurred to me. For someone who turned up uninvited in someone else’s home and shouted abuse at a stranger, James Moon was an oddly non-threatening person. Perhaps it helped that Lily must have known him intimately, and trusted him deeply. How else would he have the spare key to her home?