by Toby Litt
I washed the dirt off the milk carton and went ahead with pouring it into a saucepan and heating it. Even with my best efforts, my fingertips left darker marks on the waxy white cardboard.
I sat down and drank from the steamy hot mug, knowing that if I took it upstairs with me the smell would wake Peter. Then I washed it up and headed back to bed, but not until I’d checked in on Elizabeth. I’m a proper one for routines. They’re how I cope with stress. Elizabeth looked as beautiful as ever, though perhaps a little sadder.
Even though the appearance of the earth had been so odd, the milk did its work, and I managed to fall asleep.
In the morning – Monday – I had that feeling, the one you get when you know you’ve had a really powerful dream but you can’t for the life of you remember what it was.
Only when I entered the kitchen, carrying Mary with me, did I remember the fallen dirt and the ruined food. I was sure the cereal and milk would be okay, so there was no problem with breakfast. We’d probably need to go shopping again, later.
But when I put Mary down in her relaxer, and turned the light on in the larder, everything had changed. All the dirt was gone.
‘Peter,’ I called. ‘Come here.’
He had just been coaxing Jack – still in stripey pyjamas – down the stairs. Jack isn’t very good in the mornings, although as a toddler he regularly used to wake us at ten to five.
‘Yes,’ said Peter.
‘Last night,’ I said, ‘when I came down – ’ Then I stopped. I realized that Jack was listening, too – and I didn’t want him getting spooked about the house. Spooked was definitely how I was feeling. ‘I didn’t think we had enough milk,’ I said, making up some nonsense to cover myself. ‘But we do.’
Peter gave me a quizzical look. ‘I thought you said we had too much.’
‘L.A.T.E.R.,’ I said, speak-spelling.
Unfortunately, Jack knows his alphabet now. ‘What letter?’ he asked. Well, he almost knows his alphabet.
‘Porridge?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, then added ‘Please’ when he saw my Say Please face.
I managed to speak to Peter while Jack was off getting dressed. He can do himself now, all apart from if he has laces on his shoes. I explained to Peter about not being able to sleep.
‘When I went for the milk, the food in the larder was all dirty. And now, it’s clean again.’
‘What do you mean, dirty?’
‘Like someone had sprinkled dirt on it. From the garden.’
‘Let me have a look.’
‘But it’s gone now,’ I said. ‘That’s what I’m saying.’
He still went into the larder – where, of course, everything was perfectly pristine.
When he came out, he said, ‘You’re sure it wasn’t a dream?’
‘Absolutely.’
I knew that if I’d brought the mug upstairs with me, I would have some proof of what had happened. But because I was so neat and tidy, there was nothing – not even to give me proof for myself. Because once Peter started to question me, I found that I wasn’t as sure as I had been before. They say that when you move to a new place, your dreams are often more vivid. Perhaps I had been asleep all the time. Perhaps I had never really made that mug of hot milk. There seemed no other explanation for the appearance and disappearance of dirt.
‘We can ask Mrs. Forster to clean in there,’ said Peter. ‘She should be here soon. Unless she’s topped herself.’
‘Peter,’ I said. ‘Don’t.’
Mrs. Forster arrived at ten minutes to nine. Luckily, we were all ready by then.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Jonson,’ she said, very formally.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Did you have a good weekend?’
Rather than say no, she just gave me a hard stare. She looked in a bit of a state, as if she hadn’t slept. Her face was greyer, and her hair seemed frizzier and less under control. There was a slight tremor in her hands, which I put that down to suppressed emotion. I really didn’t want to think about what feelings Mrs. Forster had towards us. They would only make it difficult to speak to her politely.
‘Morning, Mrs. Forster,’ shouted Peter from the top of the stairs. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, too quietly for him to hear. I could tell she thought shouting in a house, unless there was an emergency, was something only ill-bred people did.
‘Could you start by dusting in the larder?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Mrs. Jonson.’
I turned away. I was planning on letting Mary have a roll around on the exercise mat, to tire her out before the solicitors arrived. They had said they would get to us around ten. If I fed Mary just before then, she might give us the peace we needed. Solicitors don’t work very well, unless they have peace.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘But I may have to stay a little later today. To catch up.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’ll see. Please don’t do any unnecessary hoovering. It makes too much noise.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Jonson.’
I felt ashamed of myself. Two days in, and I was already talking like the lady of the manor. But now that we’d started the battle with Mrs. Forster, we had to see it through. I would get Peter to tell her she had to leave on time. With her there, the house didn’t really feel like our own.
At half past nine, I heard the whining engine of a car arriving outside. I thought it was the solicitors, but when I opened the door the man standing in the porch, just about to knock, looked more like a homeless person. There was a lot of brown hair and beard on display, and very little face. His clothes were dark and ragged.
‘I am Robert Mew,’ he said, very clearly, in a high voice full of emotion. ‘I am the gardener. Do I still have my old job?’
He smelled of compost, like people who burn patchouli or smoke lots of pot. I realized he was standing to attention. I felt I should tell him to be ‘at ease’.
‘What do you normally do?’
‘I keep the garden just as it is, in the old style. And I do the forestry, though I could use another hand with that.’
I wanted Peter to come. He was upstairs, playing with Jack. I could hear Jack shrieking, which probably meant the Tickling Monster had just leapt out at him. Either that, or they were playing ghosts.
I looked at Robert Mew. His face looked polished to a brown shine, like banisters get because so many hands touch them. Robert Mew, I suddenly decided, looked just like a gardener should.
‘You can carry on as before,’ I said. ‘What days do you come?’
‘Monday to Thursday. The ivy on the trees is the main problem. It is too much to keep up with.’
‘You want an assistant?’
‘My nephew could help. That would be enough.’
‘Just do what you’d normally do, to start with. We can talk about anything else later.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, and turned around. He hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t made eye-contact.
His car, a Volkswagen Beetle, made our car look brand new. One of the triangular windows in the back had been replaced with a piece of wood. I knew it hadn’t come from a hardware shop because it still had bark on. There was a curved line of moss behind where the windscreen wipers sat.
After he’d gone out of sight, I realized that I hadn’t properly introduced myself. At least he hadn’t called me Mrs. Jonson all the time.
Peter came into the living room a few minutes later.
‘We have a gardener,’ I said. ‘He’s outside.’
Peter unlocked the French windows and went out to say hello. I soon heard wheezy chuckling from Robert Mew. Sometimes Peter just hits it off with people.
When Peter came back in, I asked, ‘So, what kept you up so late last night?’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s very interesting. I found some photographs of – ’
That was when the solicitors knocked. Their car – a blue Mercedes –was so quiet that I hadn’t heard it draw up.
Today, we ha
d Mr. Gibbon and Mr. Jump, both in dark blue suits. Mr. Jump was fat enough to be Mr. Bounce. They both seemed quite familiar with the house, and wanted to do business in Michael Francis Jonson’s office, rather than the living room – even though the office didn’t have enough chairs.
I was allowing Jack to play computer games – as a special treat – while we did our business. Mary was asleep in a BabyBjorn around my chest. Neither of the solicitors mentioned or even looked at her.
‘Right,’ said Mr. Gibbon, who was in charge. ‘There are just a few more things. As owners of the house, you are responsible for its upkeep. That includes insurance. Details of the current policy are here.’ He passed it to Peter. ‘These things don’t come cheap any more.’
Peter flicked through to the last page. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Where does that come from?’
‘You have some world-famous pieces of art here. Placing them on long-term loan with galleries could minimize costs. But, to answer your question, income from Mr. Jonson’s investments will cover most of your basic costs. Maintenance on the building has traditionally been extremely low, although we cannot guarantee that state-of-affairs will continue.’
‘Can I just ask,’ I said. ‘How old was Michael Francis when he died?’
‘He was one hundred and seven,’ said Mr. Jump. ‘He had been dealing with our firm for almost ninety years. He was our oldest customer.’
‘Ever,’ said Mr. Gibbon. ‘A remarkable man.’
‘And he decided to go to the North Pole, aged a hundred and seven?’ I asked.
‘A very remarkable man,’ said Mr. Gibbon. ‘But to return to the matter in hand…’
He talked for a while longer. What became clear was that while, on paper, we had lots of valuable assets, and a large income, most of that income went on insuring those assets. And paying the staff to maintain the house. The only way to make any real money would be to open the house to the public – something Michael Francis had always resisted. In other words, we were rich but we weren’t rich. And if anything disastrous happened, like a fire or the roof falling in, we would have to pay for the repairs out of our own funds – out of Peter’s earnings. By the end, it seemed to me like we might actually be worse off than when we’d been living in the maisonette. No holidays in the Caribbean, then.
‘Thank you,’ said Peter.
‘If there’s anything else we can do for you,’ said Mr. Jump, ‘please don’t hesitate to be in touch.’
Peter showed them to the door, then returned.
‘I thought they might give us a big surprise, this time,’ he said. ‘A nice surprise.’
‘They have done that once already,’ I said, recalling how we’d felt after our first meeting with them.
‘I’m going to have to get back to work sooner than I thought. I was planning on hanging around the house, getting under your feet, getting on your nerves.’
He came across and gave me a kiss.
‘It’s not so bad, is it?’ I asked. ‘I mean, we get to live here.’
‘But if we can’t do anything, it’s like we’re living in a museum.’
‘I always liked museums,’ I said, which was true.
We had a cuddle, Mary cosy between us.
‘Hey, come and look at this,’ said Peter.
‘Let me just check on Jack,’ I said. He was fine. He would have bounced Mario around on platforms for the rest of the day, if we’d let him. ‘Ten more minutes,’ I said, ‘and that’s it.’
‘But Mum – ’ said Jack.
When I returned, Peter had a photo album out on Michael Francis’s desk. It was an old-fashioned one, with black glue-down corners holding the photographs in place. The pages were black, too, and written on in white pencil. The handwriting, which I recognized, belonged to Michael Francis – he was very neat, with spiky tops to his letters, even the round ones.
‘Look at the date,’ said Peter.
It was 1999. The photograph showed Michael Francis in the garden of the house.
‘Does that look like a ninety-nine year-old man?’ Peter asked.
Michael Francis was standing square, feet apart, arms crossed. It was a gloomy day, a few streaks of light showed that it was raining, and Michael Francis’s stance seemed to defy the elements. He was wearing neatly cut country tweeds – just like I’d imagined the M.P. in.
‘He looks about sixty to me,’ I said.
‘More like fifty five,’ said Peter. ‘And what about this?’
He turned a few pages on. The date now was 2006. The photograph looked almost identical. Michael Francis was wearing the same tweedy clothes, standing in the same aggressive stance. It didn’t look as if he’d aged at all.
‘And then he went hunting for polar bears,’ said Peter.
‘I don’t think he wanted to kill them,’ I said.
‘Well, it looks like he could have done – with his bare hands.’
‘Very funny.’
‘You want funny?’ said Peter. ‘Here’s funny. He turned back to before the 1999 image of Michael Francis. What he showed me was a formal photograph of his great uncle in the walled garden, his staff around him. The date was 1985. There was the gardener, Robert Mew, looking very fresh-faced without a beard. There was Father Trovato, about half the size he was now – quite handsome, in fact. And there, just above Peter’s index finger, was Mrs. Forster, absolutely exactly the same as she was now. Mrs. Forster was the thing that was funny. Or maybe not. Maybe she was something else completely.
‘Some people are just born old, aren’t they?’
‘And here’s more funny,’ said Peter.
He turned back another couple of pages and another decade. Michael Francis obviously wasn’t one for taking lots of photographs. The date was now 1977. A second caption added ‘Her Majesty’s Silver Jubilee’. It was another formal shot of the household. Michael Francis, defiant as ever, a different priest, a different gardener, and the unchanging Mrs. Forster.
If you asked me, there’d been more alteration in her appearance between Saturday and Monday morning than between 1977 and 2006.
Just then, as if deliberately, Mrs. Forster came through the door. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I thought I would start in here, now.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Peter. ‘We’re finished.’
Mrs. Forster caught sight of the album. She came forwards to get a better look. ‘Where did you find this?’ she asked.
‘It was in the safe,’ said Peter.
‘Doesn’t Mr. Jonson look well?’ she said, awkwardly.
‘And you, too,’ said Peter.
‘Oh, I wore such horrible clothes,’ said Mrs. Forster. It was all I could do not to laugh. Apart from the width of the collars, her clothes had been just the same then as they were now.
‘It was the Seventies,’ said Peter. ‘No one looked their best.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs. Forster. ‘Still, I don’t like to look at myself.’ And it seemed she didn’t like us looking at her, either.
Chapter 11.
Jack had had quite enough computer games for the day. I made some cheese on toast – his favourite – and then called him in for lunch. Afterwards, he went off to play, up in his room. I had kept his Gameboy, just to make sure he did something physical.
Peter and I were eating big doorsteppy peanut butter sandwiches and drinking milk. We called it our American lunch. Mary was sitting in the relaxer chair, gazing at us. She’d been a bit grizzly, but had settled down when I gave her a dummy. Mrs. Forster was still dusting in Michael Francis’s office. Now and again, we could hear her as she moved a chair or closed a drawer.
‘She wasn’t too pleased about the safe,’ said Peter.
‘Do you think it’s weird?’ I asked.
‘What? Her being so nosy?’
‘No, her never aging.’
‘She does age,’ said Peter. ‘Just, more slowly than it seems she should. It’s probably the fact that she keeps fit, shoving that Hoover around.’
&nb
sp; ‘You’re the one that was pointing it out to me as strange.’
‘It is strange. I can’t explain it. And I certainly can’t explain Michael Francis looking so sprightly at a hundred. He should at least have lost a bit of weight.’
Just then, the phone rang. Peter answered it, then came to fetch me. When I said hello, a woman introduced herself as the Health Visitor. She wanted to come round the following morning, to check up on Mary. I had told our Health Visitor in London we were moving. The two branches must have been in touch.
‘You’re being very efficient,’ I said.
‘We don’t get so many babies as we used to,’ she replied.
I suggested she come at nine o’clock. Might as well get it over with first thing.
I had to shout goodbye. Jack seemed to be thumping around unusually loudly in his room.
Next thing, there was a sharp scream and Jack was standing at the top of the stairs, crying like I hadn’t heard him cry for ages.
‘Mum!’ he shouted. ‘There are stones! There are stones!’
I didn’t have any idea what he meant. But when I rushed up to him, he grabbed my hand and dragged me along. When I got to his bedroom, I saw that the floor was covered in exactly that – stones.
‘What have you been doing?’ I asked, perhaps more angrily than I should’ve.
‘Nothing,’ Jack wailed. ‘Nothing.’ Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how young he is.
I hugged him and spoke more gently. ‘How did the stones get up here?’
The huge heaves of his chest stopped him speaking for a little while. Then he managed to say, ‘Falling down. They were falling down.’
‘You mean you were dropping them?’
At this, he shook his head – and pointed upwards.
‘The ceiling. They came from there.’
‘They fell down from the ceiling?’
He nodded his head.
‘So, you promise you didn’t bring them in for them garden, to play with?’
He shook his head, then buried it into my shoulder. I couldn’t remember Jack being like this for a couple of years. He certainly seemed genuinely upset.
Peter arrived, carrying Mary.
