The Snow Rose
Page 10
I gasp at the immediacy. ‘But Alison said she’d give me notice of anyone else arriving!’ I’m horrified. This is too soon. ‘I don’t understand why it’s necessary.’
Agnes gives me a sharp look. ‘There’s no need for you to understand. This house belongs to the company. It has the right to put anyone in here at any time. If you don’t like it, you can leave.’
Sophia shoots her a worried look and then says soothingly to me, ‘But there’s no need to do that. We’re not here to push you out. We won’t interfere with you, honestly. You’ll hardly know we’re here most of the time. We’ve got plenty to keep us busy.’
I appreciate her attempts to keep relations easy between us. ‘Okay. But what will you be doing? This place is a huge amount of work if you’re planning to restore it. I don’t know where you’d start.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Sophia says. Agnes seems a little twitchy but she keeps quiet. ‘You’ll know more if you decide to stay here long term. But there’s no need to hurry off at once. Keep painting and we’ll be quiet as mice. You never know . . .’ She smiles at me. She’s taken off her beanie hat and now tosses her long, caramel-blonde locks back over her shoulder. ‘You might end up liking us.’
I say nothing and sip my coffee. Tomorrow. What am I going to do?
When they’ve gone, I race upstairs to see if they’ve left any sign to explain why they’re here but there’s nothing, just a few doors left open where they’ve been inspecting the place.
As I come downstairs, I suddenly see Heather standing in the middle of the hall, carefully placed in the exact central square. She’s clutching Teddington and staring up at me, as pale as ever.
‘Darling, there you are!’ I rush over to her, gathering her up in my arms. ‘I’ve missed you! I’m sorry if you were frightened. But you did the right thing going away while the ladies were here. Did you go to the den?’
‘Yes,’ she says, her soft voice not more than a whisper. ‘And I went to the old cottage.’
I pull in a horrified breath. ‘What? To Matty and Sissy? Did you see them?’
She nods.
I start shaking. ‘Oh my goodness . . . Oh darling, did they see you? Talk to you? Ask questions?’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t let them see me. I know you don’t want me to. That’s why I have to hide when people come, isn’t it?’
I hug her tight. ‘Darling, it’s only so people don’t try to separate us, that’s all. You want us to be together, don’t you?’
She nods slowly, her eyes huge.
‘Come on, you’re freezing! You’ve been outside for ages. Let’s get you warm.’
I make her supper and manage to get her to eat some of it, though I have to coax her by feeding myself alternate mouthfuls of the macaroni cheese. Then I give her a hot bath, trying to warm up her chilly limbs. She seems happy enough, just a little distant. When she’s finally in bed, asleep with her teddy in her arms, I can give in to the panic that’s been building inside me. I go to the kitchen and open the half-full screw-cap bottle of white wine that’s in the fridge. Generally, I’m careful. I limit myself to two glasses of wine a night. Tonight, I throw caution to the wind and neck the first glass with hardly a pause, then pour another, putting another bottle in the fridge to chill in case it’s needed.
I can’t believe that from tomorrow my sanctuary will be invaded. My fears about someone in the room downstairs suddenly seem foolish. Of course there’s no one there. The paranoia looks stupid in the face of actual, real people coming to the house. We’re happy here. It’s so fucking unfair. Why do they have to come and spoil it? They’re going to ruin everything, all my careful plans. But the worst thing is that I can’t see any way out. I can’t think of anywhere else we can go without being seen. Everything I put in place was to bring us here. The idea that the company might recruit other guardians never crossed my mind. Even when Alison mentioned it as a possibility, I didn’t really believe her.
I take stock of my situation. Heather is all right, her sickness coming and going but not seeming to get much worse. The house is liveable. We’re in a calm place. Things are getting better. Until today, I would have said that I’m getting stronger, that the peace and isolation is doing its good work, giving me the space I craved.
The second glass of wine disappears only marginally slower than the first. I undo the second bottle, still warm, and pour another. I get out a sheet of paper to start drawing up my options, but I can’t seem to make any sense when I write. The paper is covered in scrawls but they are haphazard, incoherent. Why can’t I make a bloody plan to get us out of this mess?
I imagine police cars roaring up the drive to accost me. They’ll take Heather away from me. They’ll lock me up. I start to cry. I know I must be drunk when I see my third glass is empty but I pour another anyway. Soon, I’m weeping huge, choking sobs, my face running wet with tears and mucus. I’m not allowed to escape. They won’t let me escape. All I want is to get away from the hell. That’s all.
‘Mummy.’
The voice is like an angel’s whisper, coming from all around me. I look up. There she is in the doorway, unutterably sweet.
‘Mummy.’
‘Darling . . .’ I stumble up but she’s beside me in a moment, taking my hand, gazing up at me with those big blue eyes.
‘Madam says don’t cry,’ Heather says. ‘Everything is going to be all right. You don’t need to cry. Madam says so. Don’t cry.’
Chapter Ten
They said they would be back early, but everyone’s definition of early is different, I suppose. I’m ready and on edge by six thirty, with the sky turning silver and my mouth dry and eyes bleary from the wine I drank last night, but the vintage camper van doesn’t roar up to the front door until after midday. By then, though, I’ve decided on a short-term strategy. It isn’t particularly clever but it’s all I can think of. I will hide Heather until I can find a new place to live.
I spent the morning scoping out the ground floor and all its possibilities. There were plenty of rooms but there was no guarantee that the women wouldn’t come in at any time. I went down to the cellar, but baulked at the idea of putting Heather down there. It would be too much like a prison, or a grim horror story. A child in a basement is close to cruelty. Besides, the company seems to regard it as their space. It seemed that the only realistic option was to keep her in our room. It is large with plenty of space for playing in, and there are windows overlooking the garden, with only a short drop to the outside flower bed. Heather managed it easily yesterday but I could put a box there and make it even easier for her to get out.
I improvised a step with an old packing case, then sat her down to explain.
‘Sweetie, those ladies who were here yesterday are coming back and they’re going to stay a while. They don’t want to hurt us, but I don’t want them to see you because I didn’t say that you and I were going to be living here together. So I’m going to find us a new place to go. In a few days we’ll have somewhere lovely to live, just you and me. But until then, I need you to stay in here, and in the den. Okay?’
I thought she would ask me more questions, but she accepted everything without demur.
‘I won’t come out, Mummy,’ she said.
I showed her how she could get to the garden. ‘You can get to your bay tree if you hide behind the hedge and go along there.’
She looked out and nodded. She seemed pleased enough.
‘I’m so sorry, sweetie. It won’t be for long. Maybe the ladies will leave and we can get back to normal.’
This, I realise, is my real assumption. I’m sure that one or two days in the house will be enough for those polished, glossy Amazons. What can amuse them here? How will they fill their time? I can’t imagine that they will stay. Just in case, I’ve sent Alison an email asking how long they will be here. She hasn’t answered yet.
‘It’s okay, Mummy,’ Heather says, smiling. ‘Madam will keep me company.’
‘Okay,’ I say, holding her hand. ‘You play with Madam. That’s fine. And remember, I love you.’
The two women climb out of the van, looking much as they did yesterday but now carrying a large holdall each, and I can see that the van is jam-packed with stuff.
‘Hello,’ I call, standing out on the front steps, my hands shielding my eyes from the bright sunshine. Today is much warmer and brighter, and the air smells as though life is returning.
Agnes mutters a hello but seems intent on getting started.
‘Hi there,’ Sophia calls. Her long hair is pulled back into a more businesslike pony tail and she looks ready for work in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt. Agnes is already at the back of the van, opening the doors.
‘Do you need a hand?’ I ask casually, curious about what they’ve got in the van.
Sophia smiles as though she’s about to accept gratefully but Agnes says quickly, ‘No thanks. We’re fine. We wouldn’t say no to coffee, though.’
‘Okay.’ I go back into the house to make it. I intend to watch hard and learn as much as possible about what they are doing here. They go upstairs and prop the door open, return a few minutes later dressed in white boiler suits, then go back and forth from the van with armfuls of stuff. I give them the coffee and go into the bay-fronted room to paint, while I watch what’s going on. They take out boxes, buckets and cleaning equipment, an industrial hoover, suitcases and bags. They take upstairs a mattress that looks kingsize. I wonder how they’ve managed to fit so much into their van; it must be a miracle of space management. Emptying it takes at least a couple of hours.
I paint without thinking while they make their interminable trips to and fro. A picture begins to emerge from under my brush but I don’t even notice what it is, I’m concentrating so hard on the girls. When the van is empty, they vanish for a while, and I hear nothing from behind the closed door. I’m about to make myself a cup of tea and think about getting Heather’s supper when they emerge, come downstairs without the boiler suits on, get into the van and drive away without a word of explanation. The minute they are gone, I run to the stairs and head to the second storey, my stomach fluttering with nerves. In the main corridor just behind the door there’s stuff piled up neatly, but not as much as they’ve brought in. Going swiftly but lightly, as though they might still hear me, I open a few random doors. Most are untouched, but one large room holds all the cleaning equipment and they’ve already made a start on that one. Then I open another to a room with more luggage carefully piled up. But in the gracious bedroom with the four-poster bed, I find what I’m looking for. It has been cleaned thoroughly and the mattress has been put in the bed frame. It’s been made up with a billowing white-covered duvet and a mound of inviting-looking snowy pillows. I feel an urge to lose myself on the feathered comfort of the bed, close my eyes and sleep. Instead, I take in the rest of the room – the suitcases against the wall – and then head out, closing the door behind me.
Are they a couple?
It hadn’t crossed my mind that they might be, but there’s no reason why not. And there is only one bed.
The idea humanises them a little. Until now, I’ve seen them as Alison’s agents, spies sent to watch me. But if they’re a couple, then perhaps it’s not all about me after all. Maybe they’re on some kind of adventure together, and Agnes is snappy because she and Sophia had a row last night, and Sophia is trying to smooth it over, and . . .
I feel a bit happier. But I still don’t want to be caught snooping. I hurry back downstairs to Heather, to tell her that she can come out for a while if she wants to.
The women don’t return until much later, when Heather is in bed and I’m reading in the sitting room. I come out to say hello, but they don’t linger, heading up the stairs and wishing me goodnight. As I go back to the sitting room, I imagine them up there, getting undressed and climbing into that big bed together. For a moment I feel comforted. I’m not alone anymore in this vast place. Then the comfort turns into a chill of fear:
I’m not alone anymore.
Later I lie awake, staring into the blackness, Heather breathing softly beside me as she slumbers. Where can I go and what can I do? I’m terrified at the idea of leaving the house. I feel as though I belong here now. I realise that I have not yet left this place since we arrived. I’ve been using the frozen food from the basement.
Do Agnes and Sophia know about the food? Maybe they’re expecting to use it. I’ll have to replace it.
The thought is awful. Up until now I’ve convinced myself that at any time I can go out to the local town, to the shops, and do whatever needs doing. Now, as I lie awake with my heart thudding hard in my chest, I know that I’m afraid of going anywhere but here. My world has shrunk to this house. I haven’t checked my emails. I haven’t been in touch with Caz. I haven’t listened to news bulletins or scanned the internet for information about the hunt that is pursuing me. I do not want to know. I want to shut myself up here for as long as I can, until they pull me kicking and screaming out of the house. That’s the only way I can imagine going.
Suddenly a great wash of calm floods over me. Maybe I’ve been looking at all this in the wrong way. Maybe the girls coming here is a gift to me. They have no interest in some woman on the run. They barely notice me. Perhaps they can help me . . . After all, they can come and go as they please. They don’t have to worry about being spotted. They must have gone out for dinner tonight. I imagine them sitting together in a restaurant, heedless of the looks they would attract, two good-looking women like them. They wouldn’t have bothered about what people around them were thinking.
If we have to stay here a bit longer, at least it means I don’t have to go out.
Soothed by this thought, I fall asleep.
The next day, I hear nothing from upstairs. I wonder what they’re doing and if they will come down at all. During the morning, Heather plays in the sitting room, and I let her go out into the garden, knowing she’s protected from view by the overgrown shrubs and bushes. ‘It’s a game,’ I tell her. ‘You can go outside as long as you stay out of sight. Okay? The ladies upstairs mustn’t see you.’
‘Don’t worry, Mummy, they won’t see me.’
‘Good girl.’
I’m preparing our lunch – a defrosted chicken from the basement freezer – when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. I go out, wiping my hands on a towel, and see the two women descending the staircase. I’m taken aback by the sight: they are both wearing long white dresses buttoned up at the front from hem to low neckline. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped. Sophia’s hair is long and flowing and she looks as though she has just stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Agnes, with her cropped hair, looks more modern, but the effect is startling. I wonder if they’re wearing their nightdresses but the dresses are too formal for that.
They nod at me as I stand there, watching, my mouth open, and head straight for the front door.
I find my voice before they go out. ‘Where are you going?’
Agnes turns to me, one hand on the door latch. ‘To church. It’s Sunday.’
‘Is it?’ Then I laugh nervously. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve forgotten the days. To church? What church?’ I haven’t heard any bells.
‘The church here. In the grounds.’ She turns back, impatient to be on her way.
‘We won’t be long,’ Sophia says with a smile.
Then they’re gone, leaving without coats. I go to the door and watch them as they head off in the direction of Matty and Sissy’s cottage, through the rhododendron bushes. They seem to know exactly where th
ey are going. But a church? In the grounds of the house? Wouldn’t I have seen other people coming and going for services if that were the case? I don’t understand it.
I’m sure that they are not anywhere near the back garden and Heather’s den. I’m not going to follow them. Instead I go to my tablet and connect to the internet. I put in a search: ‘Church at Paradise House’. But the combination of ‘Church’ and ‘Paradise’ turns up so many thousands of results, I would never have time to sift through to find what might be relevant, though I spend a while scanning them. Then, on impulse, I go to the company website and click on the details for the house, the ones I first read when I applied. There’s a tab for the history of the place and I open it up to read it again.
Paradise House is a magnificent old building that was built in the 1860s by Thomas McTavish, a pupil of William Butterfield, whose neo-Gothic influence can be seen in the elaborately patterned brickwork, the chimney design and in the use of trefoil in the upper windows. It was built for the wealthy Evans family, who made their money in woollen cloth manufacture, and continued to be owned by the family into the twenty-first century. The house has had a colourful and vibrant history. It was acquired by ARK as part of its ongoing project of property development.
There is nothing more about the house’s past, and certainly no mention made of a church. I wonder what the colourful history can be and why the company website did not go into any detail.
I search again for Paradise House, but nothing that comes up seems to be of interest. I can’t even find it on the heritage sites that record listed buildings, which seems odd given that it appears to have some architectural significance.
But maybe I don’t need the internet. After all, Matty and Sissy live right next door and they must know all about it. They said they used to live here, that their family used to live here. They must be part of the Evans family.
I call to mind the elderly sisters. They don’t look like heiresses to a wool fortune. But that is probably long gone now. On the other hand, if they sold this place, they must have a bit of cash to get by on. Good for them.