“I wish I knew what it was.”
When I snapped the light on in the kitchen, I saw the coffee mugs ready to be washed. Someone had brought the tray down. At least I wouldn’t have to go back up there tonight. As long as one of the cast thought to switch the heaters off.
As I washed and dried the crockery, I kept going over and over it all in my mind. If Cynthia had seen Sonia, maybe I really had seen Veronica. But as to why—and, more significantly, how—we could have seen two figments of my imagination, I had no idea.
I emptied the bowl and the water gurgled down the drain and through the pipes. For some reason, the thought of the tree roots in my cellar came into my mind. That again was something that simply shouldn’t exist. Not like that, at any rate.
The kitchen door closed behind me with a sharp click. I caught my breath. It had been wide open. It didn’t normally close by itself. Someone had closed it.
I tugged at the handle. It opened. No one in the hall. I peered up the stairs. No one there either. I raced over into the living room. Empty. I smelled perfume. The distinctive scent of Opium—my imaginary sister Thelma’s favorite scent.
Then it started. Faint, as if coming from far away. Glenn Miller and His Orchestra. My aunt’s distinctive voice, singing along to the record. “…‘Serenade in Blue’…”
Something stirred inside me. A sharp click in my brain, like the kitchen door closing. I sank to my knees.
“What do you want? Who are you? Why are you doing this?” I sounded like a frightened little girl, my voice no more than a whimper.
A whiff of cigarette smoke prickled my nostrils, as if someone were smoking nearby. I glanced over my shoulder, terrified I would see who was responsible for it. Praying that if I did, it would be one of the cast.
No one there. No one in the room at all, except me and the faintest trail of pungent smoke. In the distance, the song faded into silence.
Tom. He smoked. Thelma and Sonia were always on at him to quit, but he said that made him want to smoke more. When Thelma caught me—the Kelly me—sneaking a quick drag, she really laid into him. I remembered that from when I was about ten.
I shook my head. It must be me. Somehow I was doing something to make these imaginary characters real. Had I developed some weird type of brain disease that caused imaginary creations from my childhood to manifest themselves in the real world?
Or was it this house?
My mind raced. There could be only one decision. Put Hargest House on the market. Sell it. Use the money to buy somewhere much newer. Something small and far away from here. There was something about this town too. The jinxed apartment block on the High Street. That mysterious fire that drove the vicar to early retirement. The dog.
And the willow—the tentacle tree—defying nature and growing roots more than fifty yards long, somehow meshing with this house.
I had to ask the question, what had Aunt Charlotte been up to here? Was it only idle gossip from people jealous of her good fortune in inheriting such wealth? Or was there something far more sinister? Were memories locked in the walls of this building? Had my return somehow released them? Questions, always questions. Never answers.
I ran up to my bedroom, took a small suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and threw in clothes, underwear and toiletries. I grabbed my purse and sat down on the bed.
Above me, the rehearsal was in full swing. I checked my watch. Nine fifteen. Shona said they usually packed in at around nine thirty. Of course, I would have to return here on Wednesday to open up and heat the room. I couldn’t bear to think of it. I could give the keys to Shona. They could let themselves in, have the run of the place. I didn’t care. As long as I didn’t have to be here.
But I couldn’t do that, could I? Shona knew I was scared. For all I knew, she could be too. Maybe the whole cast was. Maybe they’d tell me they didn’t want to come here anymore because of the weird things that were happening. I could shut up the house and hand everything over to an estate agent.
The jumble of thoughts tumbled over one another in my mind. I grabbed my bags and, with a sob, made my way back down to the living room.
Shortly after nine thirty, Shona came in. Through the open door, voices came closer, down the stairs. The rehearsal had finished for the night.
Shona looked more relaxed than an hour ago. “Thank you for letting us use that room, Maddie. It’s perfect for our rehearsals. I do hope you’ll let us carry on. It’s so hard to find affordable rehearsal space around here. We did wonder at one time if we would have to disband, but you came to our rescue. So we’ll see you again on Wednesday. Is that all right with you?”
I wanted to say, “No,” but couldn’t. She was being so kind. They could continue to use the house over the weeks and months it would take to find a buyer. It was even less salable now, with a tree growing in the cellar, and God alone knew what else going on.
“I see you’ve packed a fair bit of luggage.” Shona’s frown returned. “Would you rather we didn’t come back?”
“Oh no, no, that will be fine.” What on earth was “fine” about my situation, I hadn’t a clue. “I’ll see you all on Wednesday.”
The frown vanished, replaced with a broad smile. “That’s great. I switched the heaters off up there, and the lights, so you just need to lock up. I’ll come out with you.”
Cynthia and another cast member were enjoying a cigarette outside. I opened the door in time to hear her say, “…flaky, like her aunt.”
Our eyes met. At least she had the grace to look embarrassed. She gave me a nervous, twitchy smile, cast her eyes downward, and moved off with her friend. I heard giggles when they must have thought they were out of earshot.
Great. No doubt the whole town would have decided I was a head case by lunchtime the next day. If I hadn’t already decided to leave, that would have done it. I could go wherever I pleased. And at this moment, that meant anywhere but here.
Chapter Seven
Two days away from the house and already I was putting things into perspective. Not only that, my desperate quest for answers had quashed some of my apprehensions. Of course, leaning on Kelly helped too. She would view the facts rationally. Anything irrational was simply a mystery waiting to be solved. Maybe my self-therapy would seem crazy to most people, but it worked for me, and at this moment, that was all that mattered. Anything to help me get through this with some semblance of sanity remaining.
On Wednesday morning, rain beat on the windows of my hotel room on the first really bad day of the new season.
I stared out at the dripping landscape. Gray, sodden. As I ventured outside, a chill wind whipped my cheeks, making them smart. I pulled the zip of my shower jacket up to my chin and secured the hood. No point attempting an umbrella in this weather. Fallen leaves created a treacherous mush underfoot. I unlocked my car and hesitated. So far, I’d paid for three nights and this would be my last. Should I extend my stay? I was comfortable enough. I slept well, felt safe. I could have paid a lot more for luxury in Chester, but here I was near enough to home to be able to carry on pretty much as normal. Maybe I would see the estate agent today. It all depended on what happened when I got back to Hargest House.
The rain had stopped when I climbed out of my car and stared up at the Gothic towers of Nathaniel Hargest’s pride and joy. I was glad we’d never met. I would have hated his arrogance, cruelty, and selfish ego. Had he built all that into this house?
I shivered. The air held a distinct chill and the damp penetrated my clothes and seeped into my body. I smelled the autumn aromas of rotting vegetation, leaf mold and sodden wood. I sniffed. Someone somewhere had lit a log fire. That, at least, provided a homely, comforting smell. For a second, a memory flashed through my mind, too fleeting to hold. A blazing log fire, the distinctive aroma of burning applewood, reminding me of those colder nights at Aunt Charlotte’s. We had never had real fires a
t home. Mother said it made too much mess. I shivered at the memory of ice-cold mornings, the condensation freezing the curtains to the windowsills. I’d drag my school clothes into bed and get dressed under the covers before emerging and summoning up courage to brave the bathroom and the water out of the hot tap that never seemed to struggle above lukewarm.
A sudden wave of embarrassment surged inside me. I had made such a fool of myself on Monday, I worried how the cast would react to me this evening. I hadn’t even been into any of the local shops since, so had no way of knowing if I had become the main topic of conversation. But I suspected so. I had provided too good a morsel to resist.
I opened the front door and stepped inside, looking all around me as I did so, fearful of what I might see. The hall felt warm, but I would need to turn up the heating, with the colder weather on its way—even if I was selling the place. Potential buyers liked to be wooed by warmth, coziness, comfort. I wandered into the living room and then the kitchen. I set my purse down on the worktop, removed my sodden jacket and draped it around a chair.
The only sound was the ticking of various clocks in each room. I noticed the cellar door—firmly shut—and breathed a sigh of relief.
I toyed with the idea of making myself a coffee, but decided I’d do it after I’d switched those heaters on. If I decided to stay here for the rest of the day.
I left the kitchen and started up the stairs. My heart beat a little faster but, when I got there, the only sound on the second floor was me. My breathing. My footsteps. My hand turning the door handle, making it squeak and the door creak as I opened it. Inside, a few theatrical props lay around. They’d set up a small table, with a lamp. A few chairs were scattered about. I recognized some of them from the room that had been used as a general dumping ground. So they’d made themselves at home all right, even to the extent of exploring other rooms. I didn’t mind. That must have been when that woman had bumped into Sonia…
I stopped myself. She couldn’t have seen Sonia, I reminded myself. Sonia didn’t exist. Except in my mind where she had lain, ignored, for over thirty-five years.
The heaters began to take the damp chill off the room within minutes. Glancing out of the window, I saw a couple walking with their Golden Labrador down the river path. They didn’t see me; they were moving in the opposite direction. The woman stooped and unclipped the leash from the dog’s collar. Freed from his restraint, he bounded along ahead of them, full of life and enthusiasm as young dogs are. I watched him gallop off toward the tentacle tree. He stopped, cocked his leg, and overbalanced. Shocked, I watched him lying still, on the ground.
The couple raced over to him. The woman gesticulated wildly. The man grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket. The dog lifted his head, as if he had recovered from being stunned. The couple helped him to his feet and he shook himself. The man put away his phone as the woman replaced the leash. The Labrador barked and strained, pulling her away from the willow. If the couple looked up now, they would see me staring down at them. I backed away. What had happened to make that dog react like that? What was it about that tree?
I scanned the room again, relieved to see everything looked normal.
The doorbell rang, faint and distant up here. I closed the door behind me and hurried down the stairs. A gray-haired man in a high visibility yellow jacket stood on my doorstep. He held a clipboard in his dirty hands.
“Mrs. Chambers?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Terry Watson from Priory Tree Services. You called us about a problem in your cellar.”
I had completely forgotten. “I’m sorry, did we say today?”
“Not definitely. I said I’d call next time I was doing a job in the area. I’m on my way there, so I thought I’d see if I could catch you. Is it convenient, or would you prefer me to call back?”
“Oh no, no, now is fine.” He’d caught me unawares but, after all, whatever I decided to do with the house, those tree roots had to go. One way or another. “I’ll show you. It’s through here. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”
“Oh no, thanks, I’m fine.”
I opened the cellar door and switched on the light.
“At least I won’t need my torch,” he said. “Some cellars are like the black hole of Calcutta.” He started down the stairs, his boots clattering on the wooden steps.
I called after him. “This one was pretty dark until a week or so ago.”
He reached the bottom, turned around and grinned at me. I lost sight of him as he went to investigate. I heard scuffling and he spoke.
“Ah, here it is.” More scuffling and a dragging noise. I stayed at the top of the stairs and waited. Seconds ticked by. Nothing. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.
“Are you all right down there?”
He moved back into the light at the bottom of the stairs. The smile had been replaced by a frown.
“You told me on the phone that you thought it was a willow? Well, that’s the weirdest willow tree I’ve ever seen,” he said. “They’re not usually too invasive. It’s the type of tree that takes no for an answer. You know, if you put up some sort of barrier—anything from pool lining to foundation—they stop growing there. Their roots also tend to be much closer to the surface. They need water, and the roots extract that from soil, so they’re usually found within a foot or so of the surface. Only in dry, sandy conditions will they have to grow deeper. The soil round here is neither sandy nor dry. You’re right by the river, so the roots should be really close to the surface. In this case, this tree isn’t pushing up under your foundation; it’s like it’s part of them. I don’t get it at all. I’m not even sure what to do about it really. I mean, we could cut off the roots, but… I can’t believe I’m saying this. From what I’ve seen, if we do, it might affect the integrity of your foundation.”
He started up the stairs and I backed away to let him pass while I tried to take in what he’d said. “So you’re saying that when this house was built, the tree roots were put in as part of the foundation?”
“Not put in, exactly. Look, I don’t really know what I’m saying because what I’ve seen is impossible. It’s as if the tree somehow meshed with the foundation and supported them. But that’s not how it’s supposed to work. Not at all. If anything, trees are supposed to destabilize foundations by pushing against them. This one has become part of them. Basically, your house is built on a foundation comprised of the usual hardcore, bricks, mortar—and an enormous tree root.” He opened the kitchen door, to go outside. “I have some tools in the van, I’ll dig some small trenches outside to try and trace the source. The actual tree. That’s confusing me as well, because the nearest seems to be that one down by the river, but it’s too far away. Much too far away. Maybe these roots belong to a tree that was felled. I’ll go and investigate.”
“Don’t you have another job you have to get to?”
“That’ll have to wait an hour or so. I’ll give the customer a call and tell her I’ve been held up.”
I made a coffee and sat in my kitchen. The cellar door stood open. A cool, damp breeze wafted up, bringing with it the now-familiar woody, damp earth smell.
Curiosity took hold of me. I had to go back down there and see what the arborist had seen. Impossible surely, but hadn’t Charlie reported something similar? And if these roots were growing as part of the foundation, what was I supposed to do about them? Leave them there? Fat chance of selling the house! Who the hell wanted a tree molded to the foundation? But maybe it wasn’t still growing. Maybe those roots had died after all. Perhaps I’d imagined that one squirming in my hand.
I clung on to the stair rail as I made my way down, sure I heard dragging noises, but rationalizing that had to be impossible.
I looked up. The door was wide open. Terry would be back soon anyway, although I had no idea how long it took to dig a couple of trenches.
At the bottom of
the stairs, I inched my way to the corner, where the roots coiled Medusa-like. Thinner, but far more numerous than they’d appeared last time I was down there. If roots were supposed to supply their tree with nutrients, these seemed to have wandered seriously off course. I stared at them, a part of me wanting to touch them again, but scared that if I did, I would experience a similar reaction to the time before. They looked alive. I supposed a dead one would look like kindling, dry to the touch. Easily snapped off. These looked far too supple for that.
The sound of footsteps coming closer hitched my breath in my throat.
Terry, clomping down the stairs. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Chambers, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I backed away from the roots and forced a smile. “Not at all, Terry. I was wondering if these are still alive. If they’re still growing.”
“Oh, they’re alive all right and I’ve traced their source. At least, I think I have. I dug three or four quick, shallow trenches and they do seem to be related to that tree by the river. I would have to confirm it and none of my colleagues will believe me, but I’m as sure as I can be. These roots belong to that tree, and they’re still growing.”
I stared at him. “But how? And what are they feeding on? There’s nothing in here except rubbish, dust and…” I gazed around me at the broken bits of furniture that hadn’t made it upstairs. “It’s just a cellar.”
Terry sighed. “I know. I think you might be wise to call in a building surveyor. They look at things from a different perspective, so with their view as well, you’ll be able to start deciding what, if anything, you want to do.”
“What if I do nothing?”
Terry shrugged his shoulders. “My guess is that, although the roots are still growing, they’re doing so very slowly. As you say, there’s nothing for them to feed on. As far as the tree’s concerned, there’s no obvious benefit to it to have those roots there. The thing that’s confusing me is that nature doesn’t usually do something without a cause. At least, that’s how I understand it anyway. Would you mind if I took some photos? I’d like to send them to the association I belong to. Maybe someone else has seen something like this and can advise what to do.”
The Devil's Serenade Page 8
