‘I thought the cellar was sealed up for good?’ I say, my mouth dropping open.
‘Yes,’ Ma says, like this unveiling of a secret room in my house is no big deal. ‘But your father did it, and he was never one to put his back into anything much. I made him do it when you were a toddler – I was worried about you falling down the steps. It used to be the meat store, when Agnes lived … was alive. They’d butcher the animals down there, and hang the meat.’
‘Dad sealed the cellar with a table top?’ I peer down into the darkness.
‘You gone soft in the head or summat? I just told you, didn’t I?’ Ma says, shaking her head. ‘Anyway, I haven’t been down here nigh on thirty years, but there is something here that I only remembered just now. Something you are going to want to see.’ She shines her torch on the steep, uneven stone steps that seem to tilt forward, ‘Perhaps you better go first; I’m not so sure of my legs as I used to be.’
‘I’m living in a ghost story and I’m the one who gets to go down first into the cellar armed only with a torch?’ I mutter. ‘Great.’
And yet there is a sense of elation as I make my descent; a sense of excitement. I never had any idea that this subterranean room was still accessible, and the existence of a secret room is a childhood dream come true, almost like finding a snowy forest at the back of a wardrobe.
The steps are difficult to navigate, but there are only a few. Once at the bottom, I hold out a hand to Ma and guide her down to join me. Shining the torch around, a picture of the room builds up in strips of light. It’s small, perhaps twelve square foot with an arching roof, and deep alcoves lined with shelves – and hundreds and hundreds of wide-necked glass bottles and jars, just like the one I brought back from the Bee Boles. As my light sweeps back and forth, I see stacks of dusty plates, the huge metal hooks that hang from the ceiling, and to my right, two thickly overgrown windows.
‘How can I never have noticed that there were windows that lead to this room?’
‘Don’t suppose you’d notice them if you weren’t looking,’ she says. Each window is covered in thick ivy, parts of which have insinuated themselves through the gaps in the glass and wound their way inside, while a thick, furry moss covers the stone and tints the dirty glass an ancient green.
‘Your dad never liked coming down here,’ Ma said. ‘I didn’t mind it so much, and when we were first married we couldn’t afford a fridge, so I kept the milk down here, and cheese and such. And one day I was sweeping it out, thinking of turning it into a pantry, when I found this.’ She holds out her hand, demanding the torch in a gesture. Wordlessly, I hand it over. ‘I remember thinking how strange it was, to find it here, so low down and so roughly hewn …’
Ma shines the torch on the stone at the bottom of the wall and I bend down to see closer, tracing my hands along each letter, carved with great persistence into the hard stone, perhaps with a nail or another piece of stone. And it spells one word.
AGNES.
As I kneel on the floor, many legged creatures scuttle away from the light, a centipede crawls vertically away from me.
Seeing this simple epitaph here brings me closer to her than anything else – her diary papers, even her apparitions. Perhaps because it pins her to a place, a moment. Maybe even the worst moment of her short life. Here, if I place my fingers in the grooves that she carved out of the stone, grooves that it would have taken many hours, maybe even days to make, I know that I am where she was, and it’s almost as if it’s her fingertips that feel each rise and irregularity that signifies the very last traces of a life once lived. It is so very human.
‘Oh my God,’ I say, thinking of the cold and the dark and the fear, the loneliness. ‘Do you think they kept her down here, Ma, before her trial? Ma, what if this was the place that she died?’
‘It could be her that scratched her name in the stone, or it could have been Robert, I suppose. He were down here too, weren’t he? But it’s a link, isn’t it? Proof that their story is real.’
Leaning on my elbows, I shine the light on the carved letters, too crudely carved to get a sense if it is Agnes’s work or not. And then I see, faintly scratched into the stone, a face, the upper half shaded out, just like those I have seen before, drawn into both Agnes’s papers and Emily’s.
‘This is Agnes,’ I tell Ma, certain. ‘She doodles this weird face thing over and over again. This is her, though I’ve never worked out what it means.’
The cellar door slams shut and Ma’s torch blinks out. At exactly the same moment Mab explodes into ferocious barks, as if she is ten Rottweiler dogs instead of one aged retriever.
‘Go,’ Ma says, as I feel my way through the dark, soft and sticky insects giving way under my hands as I scramble up the steps, stumbling as I try to find the latch to let me out of the cupboard. Mab’s barks becomes high-pitched, and when I finally find the latch I expect the door to offer me resistance, but it doesn’t. Instead, I push it open and run into the sitting room where Mab has Marcus Ellis pinned into a corner, her gums drawn back in a ferocious snarl.
‘The front door was open,’ he says, not taking his eyes off the dog. ‘I probably should have knocked?’
Will sits up and, sleepily, rubs his eyes. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Hush now, Mab.’ Ma appears behind me, a little out of breath, the torch operational once more. She points it at Marcus, shining it right into his eyes so that he squints.
‘Away, Mab,’ she says, and reluctantly the dog stands down, circling twice before sitting at Will’s side, her eyes still fixed on Marcus.
‘You surprised us.’ I’m irritated by the way he’s just walked into our home. ‘I suppose none of us expected you at this time of night, least of all Mab.’
‘It’s only just gone nine,’ Marcus protests.
‘Well, we’re country people.’ Ma fixes him with her best death stare. ‘Bed early and up with the larks, that’s us.’
‘I can see that.’ Marcus looks at Will’s makeshift sofa bed, and the pile of blankets in my chair, clearly thinking that we are a house full of a lunatics. ‘It’s just that I got home and all the lights were on and the front door was open. Your bag was still on the table in the library, Trudy, and it was like walking in on the Marie Celeste – I was worried that something had happened to you.’
‘Oh my God.’ I cover my mouth with my hand, my resentment evaporating in an instant. ‘I’m so, so sorry. No, nothing bad happened … unless you count my son finding his way through your secret door in the games room and getting a bit lost, so I was very flustered when I left and I apologise for leaving everything open.’
‘Oh no.’ Marcus looks mortified. ‘I’m so sorry, Trudy, I should have told you about it. When the builders discovered it, I had them preserve it because I thought it was so much fun. I didn’t think about Will finding it and going exploring. I underestimated you, hey, Will?’
‘’Spose,’ Will says.
‘It was a bit hairy for a moment, actually,’ I say.
‘As long as you are both OK?’ Marcus looks from me to Will, avoiding making eye contact with Ma.
‘Yeah, fine,’ I say, uncertain of exactly why I wish he would go right away. It’s hardly fair, especially when I did leave his house wide open, exposed to the elements or any passing burglar. ‘Look, can I make you a cup of tea in the kitchen, while Will gets settled back to sleep? We’re not sleeping upstairs at the moment because … well, it’s taking him a while to get used to this old place; he likes us to all be together.’
‘Right.’ Marcus accepts both that excuse and my offer of tea, even though Ma scowls at me as I lead him into the kitchen.
‘So, did you find anything interesting in my priceless library before you ran away, leaving the door open?’ Marcus asks me, as we wait for the whistle of the kettle.
‘I am so, so sorry,’ I repeat myself, idly wondering if the whisky in that bottle on the shelf that’s been there since before Dad died would still be drinkable. ‘Once we arrived home I g
ot the news that they’d found part of the plane my husband was in when it crashed, and everything else went out of my head. I should have gone back, or called you at least.’
I turn back to him and muster a smile.
‘Can you forgive me?’
‘Oh, Trudy, I’m so sorry. Of course the last thing you were thinking about was me. And of course I forgive you. Can you forgive me and my house?’
‘Your house is quite duplicitous,’ I say, ‘but of course I do. Nothing that happened was your fault.’
‘Good.’ Marcus smiles. ‘Because where else am I going to find someone with your experience and qualifications to catalogue my library? Will you come back again tomorrow? I’ll be there most of the day.’
‘Yes,’ I say, but my tone is uncertain. When I think about the castle, I feel a certain disquiet, something concrete and real that shouldn’t be ignored. And yet … what if there are other traces of Agnes or the Heatons concealed there? ‘I should be able to. Can I let you know?’
‘Of course.’ He seems a little disappointed, and I suppose it must be lonely, the only living creature in that great glass edifice. ‘Well, I’m back to Scotland on Monday, and then I’ll be back by Thursday and I’ll have some time off before we start work here.’
‘Great,’ I say, but even to me my enthusiasm sounds strained.
‘This is such a wonderful old building,’ he says, looking around the sitting room, reaching his hand up to touch one of the beams. ‘I’ve been in love it with for such a long time. And to be part of its restoration? It’s very special. It feels like a part of it belongs to me now … Anyway, I’d better get back,’ he says, ruffling his fair hair. ‘See you soon, Tru.’
As I watch the brake lights of his car disappear down the lane, Ma comes and stands at my shoulder.
‘He’s a strange sort,’ she says.
‘He’s kind; I like him,’ I say, with a shrug.
‘Funny, I’ve never met someone I’d like to flat-out punch in the mug as much.’
I can’t help but laugh.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The morning wakes us gently, the first light of dawn rousing us at around seven thirty. Will rolls off of the sofa and into my arms on the floor, where I’d made a camp bed, burying his head in my pillow. I hold him, inhaling the scent of sleep in his hair and the sweetness of his breath.
Ma swears under her breath as she gets out of her chair, muttering, and she retreats into the kitchen to set the fire and wash and dress. As for me, I’m content just to lie here, to be in that moment with my son for as long as I can, and as I hold him, I think of Abe, and how gentle he was, always, from the first moment I kissed him, to the last day when he hugged me goodbye. There had been times in our twenty years of knowing each other that I hated him – times he hurt me, times we both despaired – but never once had he ever been cruel, or rough. And it strikes me that the fact that I have known someone in this world who has treated me with such care is a rare privilege.
If there could be just one more moment, just one more, to hold him, to feel his smile against my skin, to touch his dear face with my fingertips and thank him for every little joy he brought me, just one more moment, then … then … I stop myself, and look at Will, my hopeful son, his heart full of light. Not if, but when. Until I know exactly what happened to my husband I will always believe that there will be a when.
‘Are you crying, Mummy?’ Will’s green eyes are watching me and he takes my face in his hands. ‘You are crying.’
‘Sorry.’ I muster a smile for him. ‘Not so much crying as leaking feelings.’
He winds his arms around my neck and pulls me closer.
‘I miss him too, Mummy; I miss him so much. It’s OK to cry, remember? You told me it was OK to cry and feel sad. But everything is going to be OK.’
He pats my back, just as I pat his when he is sad.
‘You know, you are a lot like your daddy,’ I tell him, inhaling the scent of his skin. ‘Just as kind and clever and brave as him. I feel very lucky to be your mummy.’
‘You are lucky,’ Will says, pulling away from me so I can see his small smile.
‘There’s tea,’ Ma says, shuffling into the living room. ‘Toast, if you want it, or cake.’
‘Cake for breakfast?’ I half laugh.
‘I want cake,’ Will says, and in a moment he is gone, with Mab close at his heels.
‘I been thinking.’ Ma leans on the back of the sofa as she talks. ‘If we’ve got to search the whole house, then we need to get the rest of the crap out of it and me and Will can make a start on that today.’
‘This cake is great, Granny.’ Will returns, talking as he munches. ‘Your best yet.’
Ma spits on a hanky that she has retrieved from her sleeve and begins vigorously cleaning Will’s horrified face.
‘But what I was thinking,’ she says, once she’s released him, ‘is that maybe you could take us all into town? We could do with a few bits to make the place feel more homely; what do you think, Will?’
‘I want a telly,’ Will says very seriously. ‘And an Xbox.’
Which is why, a couple of hours later, Ma sits stiffly in the passenger seat, in an old emerald-green raincoat buttoned up to the neck, and a peach-coloured headscarf tied under her chin. Will and Mab are in the back, Will struggling to put a seat belt on the aged dog, who doesn’t share his concern with road safety.
‘Will, just put your belt on,’ I say. ‘Mab will be fine.’
‘But if we crash she’ll hit Granny in the back of the head with the force of an elephant!’ Will told me. ‘I saw it on YouTube.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ Ma says, glancing at me. ‘Well, are you going to drive somewhere or are we going to sit here like lemons, freezing our knackers off?’
‘Is “knackers” a rude word?’ Will asks me as I pull off down the potholed little road.
‘I’m not completely sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s say yes to be on the safe side.’
‘I want a telescope, too,’ Will says. ‘The stars are much clearer here than they used to be in London.’
‘In Haworth you’re more likely to get some lovely Brontë-themed cushions and a nice lampshade or two,’ I tell him, but that doesn’t seem to dampen his enthusiasm. Parking behind the Parsonage, I wait while Ma steps out of the car, taking a moment to straighten up.
‘I’ll take Mab to the pub where I’m meeting Grace,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you in an hour. And Ma, please don’t wave that bag of cash around too much.’
I watch them for a moment, my skinny, awkward mother, and my excited little boy, hopping at her side, and a rush of pleasure floods my chest. This is the best of us, I think. Ma and Will, making friends, is the best of what it means to be human. Making a family, when there was none. Forgiving, hoping, loving, despite it all.
Ma, me and Will. We may never be complete again, but still we have each other.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Despite its fame – or infamy – for being the place that Branwell Brontë was most likely to get drunk in, the Black Bull is almost empty, and it’s easy to find Grace, sitting in the window, her long brown hair braided over one shoulder, a deep-green sweater setting off her hazel eyes.
‘Thank you for meeting me on your day off,’ I say, after I’ve ordered a coffee and sat down. Mab, a little restless to not be with her boy, paces about and whimpers at the door.
‘No problem at all.’ Her eyes sparkle and she rubs her hands together. ‘When you said what you’d found, I couldn’t wait! Did you bring the …’ she glances around furtively ‘… items with you.’
‘I did.’ Taking the jar and the pages, each one now protected by a clear folder, out of my bag, I hand them to Grace. She reads them, transfixed.
‘This is remarkable.’ Grace reads the final page one last time and when she looks up at me there are tears in her eyes. ‘This is incredible.’
‘I couldn’t wait to show it to you,’ I say, smiling to see the light in her eyes.
‘And I believe, more than ever, that Emily’s Robert Heaton hid the volumes, at least two, anyway, in the house – and, hopefully, the rest of Agnes’s story. My ma and I are clearing out all the other rooms to have a good look for them, and maybe, if we’re lucky, she will show us where to look.’
‘Pardon?’ Grace’s smile falters for a moment.
‘I … Oh.’ I feel the heat in my cheeks as I cast about for something to say that doesn’t make me sound insane to a normal person, or rather a person who isn’t a Heaton. ‘I mean … Well, working up at the Parsonage, you must know how it is. I expect you get so immersed with the Brontë sisters that you feel like you know them. You must feel as if they are there with you, right? Because their words, the letters … they all come off the page and live. I know it’s silly and romantic, but that’s how I feel about these pages. I see Emily and Agnes as if they are in the room with me, talking to me.’
‘Oh yes, I totally understand that,’ Grace agrees, nodding. ‘I feel they are there with me, in the same room, peering over my shoulder to see what I’m up to.’
She laughs, and I laugh, but I’m not so sure it’s a joking matter.
‘So, as well as searching the house for the world’s greatest-ever literary find, I’m going back to Castle Ellis to finish my work there for Marcus; that will take weeks, but perhaps I’ll find something else about Agnes in the records. He has no idea what he has in that library and I’m sure he’d want to return the parish records to the church or a museum, once he knows.’
Grace is silent for a moment, then: ‘I’m not so sure about that, to be honest.’
‘Really?’ I’m surprised at the expression that has frosted over her features. ‘He seems like such a nice man, and so keen on local history and the Brontës. I’m sure he’d want anything of public interest to be available to … well, the public.’
‘Sadly, that’s not the case. Sometimes Marcus Ellis bids against the Parsonage for the things that we want, and prices us out. We lost one of the miniature books to him last year.’
The Girl at the Window Page 23
