The Hidden Girl

by Louise Millar

  Her expression immediately relaxed. ‘I knew it! You bunch of piss-heads.’

  He grinned, relieved.

  ‘Right, you’ve got no excuse then,’ she said, unwrapping herself. ‘You have to keep me company. They only drink tea and sherry at my sewing group – it’s all very vintage, you know.’

  She went to fetch whisky, two glasses and a packet of biscuits.

  ‘Jamie’s – don’t tell him. Do you want to put some music on?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He was so pissed he grabbed the first thing – a Mazzy Star CD – and Clare lit candles and poured out the whisky. Slow, dream-like music filled the room. Will sat back, starting to feel relaxed, which was weird, because he hardly knew Clare.

  He lifted his glass. ‘Well, cheers. Thanks very much.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Clare said, winking. ‘I’m going to spinning class in the morning, so I reckon I’m allowed.’

  ‘Spinning class?’

  She made a face. ‘Only since I split up with Dave. Got to get back out there.’

  ‘Oh, right, yeah – sorry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. It was coming for a while,’ she said, biting a biscuit. ‘Between you and me, Jamie was an accident actually, and then we stuck it out for about – ooh – ten years longer than we should have.’

  ‘How old is Jamie?’

  ‘Ten.’

  They both laughed. Will eased back in his chair. This was OK. She was nice, the flat was nice. The whisky took the edge off thinking about Hannah. For once there was no schedule, no painting, no long, serious discussions. And he could go to bed without watching Hannah turn her back on him.

  ‘But no, it’s fine,’ Clare said. ‘I’ve been wanting to get the business moving for ages, and now I can. Dave always wanted to live in Brighton, and he’s met someone, so …’ She shrugged. ‘Jamie loves it there, too, so it’s OK.’

  Clare casually pulled the tie from her bun. Her hair tumbled onto her chest and Will examined the bottom of his glass.

  ‘So I meant to ask you: why the move to Suffolk?’

  He sighed inwardly. It was a subject too close to home tonight.

  ‘Uh … it’s a long story, but we went there when my gran died, for the funeral. And I was showing Hannah where I used to hang out in the summer, and we got lost.’

  Clare’s eyes widened. ‘No!’

  ‘Yeah, in a place called Tornley, down a dead-end. We did a U-turn outside this old house with a “For sale” sign, and Hannah wanted to see inside.’

  ‘Seriously, just like that?’

  ‘Yeah. We rang the estate agent and he showed us round the next day. It had been empty for years, so we put in a stupid offer, thinking there was no way they’d take it.’

  ‘And they did?’

  ‘Yup. Then it all just happened.’

  Clare sipped her whisky. ‘Wow. But you like it, right?’

  Will chose his words carefully. ‘Well, it’s got an acre of land and a place to build a studio, so …’

  ‘Oh. So you’ll stop renting at Smart Yak?’

  For a second he thought he sensed disappointment in her voice, and put it down to the drink. ‘Well, I spend part of my fee on studio rent, so I might as well invest it in my own place. And Hannah’s idea is to section off a guest area in the house, where clients can stay.’

  ‘Sounds great. Big life-change, huh?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Her felt her sparkly eyes on him. ‘So …’

  ‘So …’

  ‘So … Sorry!’ she smiled. ‘Why don’t you sound convinced?’

  It was strange. His head was clearing despite the whisky. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if your wife loves the house, and you want a studio – well, you didn’t exactly seem upset about not going back yesterday.’

  He swirled the drink in his glass.

  In this cosy flat, with whisky on his tongue, he nearly told Clare. Then he reminded himself he was drunk, and it was late, and they were here alone.

  He wasn’t stupid. He knew how these things could go.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s house-moves for you. You know yourself.’ He gestured at her flat. ‘Takes a while.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  He put down his glass, and saw her glancing at his faded Celtic-band tattoo again. This time she didn’t look away.

  ‘I was eighteen,’ he offered. ‘We all got one. I can’t even remember why.’

  ‘You and your mates?’

  He nodded. Clare flung back her blanket and unbuttoned the top of her denim dress. She pulled away one side, and a tangle of blonde hair, to reveal a small blue dolphin diving under a lacy bra-strap. ‘Me too! First year at art college.’

  An unexpected sexual volt charged through Will. He shook himself. Grow up.

  ‘Nice,’ he said politely. ‘Anyway, listen.’ He stood up, holding the arm of the chair. ‘Thanks for the whisky. And for the bed. I’m going to leave you in peace now.’

  She twisted a lock of hair. ‘No, I’m glad you took me up on staying. There’s a towel under the sink.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Night. Sleep well.’

  ‘Night.’

  As he headed for the bedroom, an image came back to him of Hannah meeting him at the door of her Holloway flat with a soft kiss, bare feet, cheeks flushed with cooking, smelling of spice and garlic.

  Then he knew what was different about Clare recently.

  She seemed happy in her own skin, like Hannah used to be.

  Will shut the door, and sat down on Jamie’s bed. He realized he wasn’t just unhappy that Hannah had forced him to move out of London.

  He was just unhappy.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  That night Hannah put out the sitting-room fire in Tornley Hall, thinking about her conversation with Will. Was it the phone signal, or was he drunk? Without her around, Matt and the studio boys had probably talked him into four or five pints.

  Well, good for them. Matt had only ever known Grown-up Will. Grown-up Will, who was responsible for other people’s careers and mortgages. He’d never met Childish Will. He’d be out of a job in a month, if he did.

  It didn’t matter. Will would be home tomorrow.

  As Hannah stood up, she spotted the vagrant’s red blanket, still lying in the corner by the window. Wrinkling her nose, she picked it up with the poker to throw it out the back door.

  The corner of a green leather-bound book appeared underneath it.

  What was that?

  Hannah dropped the blanket and knelt down. The rest of the book was stuck in a narrow gap under the lowest bookshelf.

  She pulled it out. ‘Photographs,’ it said on the front in gold letters.

  This was interesting.

  Behind it, she saw the edge of another green album. She dragged it out. There was a third behind that one.

  Intrigued, Hannah kept pulling. Four, five … She continued until there were seven photograph albums lying on the wooden floor. This was exciting. Three of the covers were more battered than the others and had a faint white coating, as if they’d been stored somewhere damp. Lots of pages were stuck together. She opened the first clean album. The spine was stiff and came apart with a creak. Black-and-white photos appeared on the page. They were inserted into little cardboard frames, with soft, off-white tissue nestled between each page.

  Hannah flicked, fascinated. This page showed Tornley Hall!

  What were these: the Horseborrow family photographs?

  She found more photographs of people in the garden and around the house, at the beach and on the lanes. This was amazing. If Brian was right, and the Horseborrows had been the only residents of Tornley Hall since it was built in 1902, these photographs would provide an invaluable history of the house.

  With the fire now dead, the temperature plummeted. Hannah grabbed three of the better albums, locked up the inner doors and ran to her freezing bedroom.

  When she’d warmed up under the duvet,
she examined them in more detail. The first collection appeared to be from the 1920s. Tornley Hall looked much grander than it did today. The front lawn was manicured, with elegant paths and rosebeds, and a posh car in the driveway. There were two Irish wolfhounds in a few of the photos. One image was taken at the front of the house. In it, a nipped-mouth elderly woman in a hat and muffler sat in a bath chair. Behind her was a girl with the vacant look of a bored servant. Could the woman be Olive and Peter’s mother, Mrs Horseborrow, the original owner of the house? Hannah peered closer. The front door was ajar.

  Was that … was that … ?

  It was. In the shadows was the Oriental tapestry that had hung here till last week.

  She sat back. This was incredible. Will had to see this.

  In the second album the photos were from a little later, perhaps the 1940s, and appeared to have been taken inside the original walled garden. One set was of a party. Cheerful young men wore slicked-back hair and baggy wool trousers; the women were dressed in tea-dresses, their hair set in waves. Some played croquet. All were smiling for the camera. The same two faces appeared on every page: a woman with a pleasant, round face and brown plaits, tied Austrian-style on top of her head; and a man with jolly apple-cheeks, round glasses and a tubby tummy, encased in a suit – like Santa Claus without the beard.

  Olive and Peter?

  Hannah laid the album on her chest. Fresh snow drifted against the window. How strange for a brother and sister to live in one house their whole lives, even if they had travelled the world in between. She thought of the other photo albums downstairs. It would be fascinating to see photos of those travels, especially if they’d been to countries that she’d visited for work.

  She yawned. She’d look at more tomorrow. Right now, she needed sleep. It had been a very long, strange day.

  Hannah shut the albums and turned off the light, wondering where the vagrant was sleeping tonight. He’d completely terrified her, but for his sake she hoped it was somewhere warm.

  One minute Hannah was lulling herself to sleep with her plans for tomorrow, the next she was examining the stained-glass window again.

  Yet now the peacock wasn’t a peacock. It was a tall bird, brown and plain, with flat feathers. Its legs were twitching as if they were trapped, and the stain was there again on its belly, wriggling, but not moving away.

  Then Hannah’s face was being pushed towards the glass and she couldn’t stop it. To her horror she realized the stain was, in fact, a mass of maggots, dripping onto the windowsill. Her face touched it, and it was warm and sticky, and she was screaming, knowing the glass was going to break.

  Hannah sat up in bed, clutching her stomach.

  A wave of nausea hit her.

  Throwing back the duvet, she ran to the ice-cold bathroom, knelt on the cold tiles and vomited.

  How could this be happening? Every single thing was going wrong.

  She retched again, then leant her head miserably on the toilet bowl. In the freezing cold of the night, she couldn’t help wondering if this was someone telling her it was just not meant to be.

  The nausea passed around 2 a.m.

  Clutching a blanket around her, Hannah struggled downstairs to find water. As she reached the middle step, she stopped.

  There was a faint light on in the kitchen. Befuddled by lack of sleep and disorientated by the sickness, she tried to remember if she had left it on.

  Suddenly she heard a thump, then a click, from below.

  Her stomach jolted.

  She touched the wall, then eased herself downstairs quietly, her legs starting to shake, to grab her phone from the hall table, checking that the windows and doors behind her were still shut. Praying, she checked that she had a signal and found Dax’s number. Would he come in the middle of the night? He’d be here quicker than the police. She checked the time: 2.04 a.m. She’d better be sure, before she rang him.

  She took a deep breath and boldly turned on the hallway light.

  ‘Yes,’ she shouted. ‘I’ve just rung the police. When will you and Bill get here, Dax? Two minutes? Great, see you then.’

  She waited, her finger poised on Dax’s number, trembling. When there was no further noise, she crept towards the kitchen. At the doorway, she peered in cautiously.

  The light came from the scullery. The fridge door was lying open again.

  From inside came a very loud thump. Then a ‘click, click, click’.

  The old-fashioned, noisy fridge motor was adjusting itself to the temperature outside the door.

  Exhaling with relief, she walked over to shut it. The sight of the last bits of food turned her stomach, and she slammed the door. God, her nerves were frayed.

  Knowing she wouldn’t sleep again, Hannah drank some water and folded a piece of junk mail, to jam under the fridge door. She’d spent ten years travelling in politically volatile countries, but two days on her own here had creeped her out more than anywhere she’d ever been.

  Needing to hear another voice, she turned on Radio 4, then walked round the house, switching on lights, double-checking windows and doors. If any passing vagrants were still in any doubt as to whether Tornley House was occupied, they bloody wouldn’t be now. She glanced at the stained-glass window – remembering her nightmare. The thought of the maggots brought a hand to her mouth.

  Back in the kitchen, Hannah sat down and checked her schedule.

  Day 10 Wednesday, DINING ROOM.

  She had to stay strong. Just ten days, and it would be over.

  She rubbed her stomach. Had she eaten something bad?

  She glanced at the paintbrushes and rollers in the scullery, and back at the clock.

  If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well do something. She could even claw back a half-day for the garden next week.

  When she was sure her nausea had settled, she turned on the hob again for heat and went to change into her painting clothes. Then she went to fetch the white paint from the study.

  She stopped in the doorway, not believing what she was seeing.

  The white paint had tipped over. The lid was off, and there was a thick streak of dried paint on the wooden floor.

  ‘Idiot!’ How could she have been so stupid?

  She’d have to cover it with a rug.

  Annoyingly there was also now a thick rubbery layer across the top of the paint in the tin.

  Avoiding the temptation to burst into tears, Hannah carried it into the rust-coloured dining room that they would use to host Will’s clients one day, stuck a screwdriver in to break the rubbery skin, and brushed a stroke of paint onto the old wallpaper. No. There was no time to feel sorry for herself. As she had feared, tiny lumps had formed within the paint. They spread across the wall like a heat rash. Well, she had no choice now. She had to get on. The colour in this room was as dense as the bottle-green in the kitchen. It would need three coats probably. Three coats of lumpy paint.

  Behind the sagging wallpaper were bumps in the old lath and plaster. Hannah began to concentrate so hard on spreading paint over them, like thick make-up on angry pimples, that the sense of being watched crept up on her slowly.

  She turned to the window, and saw a figure.

  She gasped.

  Only then did she realize that it was her reflection.

  Maybe it was fatigue, and the sickness, and the disorientation of the hour, but with it came a vision of herself here in the future, alone.

  An old woman, looking out of the window onto a bleak garden full of weeds. The towering wall beyond only added to the sense of being buried alive.

  Hannah shook herself. This was stupid. She was just worn out.

  She climbed up and tied dust-sheets to cover the window, then changed the radio to an urban music-and-chat channel that reminded her of London.

  Yet, even with the window covered, she still felt the same strange sensation of being watched. She pushed on, ignoring her nerves and grumbling stomach, trying to keep her morale up.

  Somewhere, out there, right
now, a child might be waiting for her and Will. A child who needed them as much as they needed him or her.

  She had to keep going.

  She could do this.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she whispered to a child who might or might not exist.

  She tried to imagine his or her face but it was hidden in the shadows.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next morning, in London, Will stayed in Jamie’s bed till he was sure Clare had left for her spinning class.

  His sleep had been broken. He’d woken intermittently, feeling dehydrated, but had stayed in bed, not wanting to scare Clare by wandering around in the middle of the night to get water.

  Instead, he’d lain awake for an hour at a time. Through the wall he’d heard a creak, and suspected she was awake too. Her bed, he recalled, was on the other side of the wall.

  She was lying, a foot away, through the thin plasterboard.

  Now, at eight-thirty, once he was certain Clare had gone, he stretched out his back and went for a shower. Hanging on the door was a plastic bag, with a note: TV says trains not running again! Help yourself – and feel free to shower eat stay tonight, etc! C .

  That was nice of her. The bag contained men’s clothes. Dave’s, presumably.

  The bathroom was small. He pulled back the shower curtain. Two bras hung on a clothes drier in the bath, alongside underwear and T-shirts. He lifted it out, awkwardly. One bra was purple with lace, the other darker with pink ribbon. This was definitely not like Hannah’s underwear. In fact, that first Christmas they’d gone out she’d cried with laughter when he’d presented her with lingerie in some misguided attempt to be a ‘proper’ boyfriend for the first time in his life. To tease him, she’d worn the red lacy bra outside her clothes, stuffed with toilet roll, and called him ‘optimistic’.

  Will showered, then pulled on the donated underwear and T-shirt. They were big. He remembered Clare’s boyfriend now from the Smart Yak Christmas drinks. Spiky hair and a pink polo-shirt, talking about sailing a boat to France. A florid face, and a rugby player’s bulky size. Not the kind of guy he’d imagine with an arty girl like Clare.

  Will pulled the front door shut behind him and walked to Smart Yak. It was still snowing. Another day’s reprieve from Hannah and the house.