The House of Whispers

by Anna Kent

  Still, I couldn’t break away from her. So, for much of that third and final year at uni, I’d been biding my time, waiting for my chance to get a place on my own. Grace still had two years to go on her course but I was going to be working. I’d have a salary and could afford something a bit better. I pictured myself in a light and airy one-bed: alone, painting in silence; ‘passing out on the couch’, as Grace put it, without anyone to notice and, as the end of the year had approached, I’d done my own flat-hunting in secret and pushed Grace towards getting a place with her medic friends.

  I talked up how much better it would be for her to stay with people on the same course; to be with people who were still students; people who were experiencing the same things as her. She’d need to be able to talk about what she was going through with people who understood, I said. She’d be doing attachments in hospital and clinics by then, working all hours and being absolutely shattered. I’d be working myself, but nothing like the hours she’d be putting in. I wouldn’t be a great support to her, I told her.

  She smiled, and asked to see my flat. Oh, I’m such a fool. My heart sank as we walked along the street and I realized how central my new place was to everywhere she needed to be. She always had a good aesthetic sense and I saw how her eyes lit up when I stopped outside the white stucco-fronted building. With each flat privately owned, it was well maintained and smart from the outside. There were even window boxes with flowers.

  Inside, the flat was like the Tardis: way more space than you’d imagine, and the owner had done everything possible to it to make it look light and fresh. There was a bedroom, a nice bathroom all done up in white, a separate living room and a new-looking open-plan kitchen that had an extra space attached: a dining nook, I imagined, but I was planning to use it for painting. The light was good despite the place being half underground – the living-room window ran the entire length of the room and was at head height, so you could see people’s feet walking past. I’d never lived in a basement before and it gave me a safe, womb-like feeling, like I was buried and hidden away, but still able to see out and watch the world.

  ‘It’s only the basement,’ I told Grace. ‘Don’t get too excited,’ but I could tell from her energy, even as we walked down the steps to the front door, that I’d made a mistake letting her come. Inside, she rushed about examining everything like an overexcited dog.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, looking at the dining nook. ‘There’s enough space here for a sofa as well as a small dining table, so you could use the living room as a second bedroom…’ She jiggled with excitement. ‘You could have the big room! I don’t mind being in the small one! What do you think?’

  I’d laughed, thinking she was joking, but it turned out she wasn’t. Had she misread the situation, or had she deliberately manipulated me? Deep down, I still felt I owed her, and she knew it. I was still grateful to her for being my friend; for helping me get on track with my art. Without really realizing what I was doing, I’d nodded, and Grace had flung herself at me, hugging onto me like a limpet, weeping her gratitude. Then she’d flung her arms out and spun in a circle on the living-room floor, as if it was her place already, and I’d ended up with her living with me, rent-free, for two more years.

  The flat should have been my retreat; my safe haven. It couldn’t have been further from it.

  Would the same happen again now?

  I closed my eyes. No. I was stronger now. Things could be different. I’d chosen to invite her to stay – the decision had been mine. And, at the moment, with Rohan away, it suited me to have the company. But I could be prepared. I could have a plan. In practical terms, I’d take her to estate agent’s and help her look for somewhere – yes – but I also wanted her to treat me as an equal. I needed to find some techniques; ways to handle her.

  I closed my eyes and tried to look objectively at the situation. I was never able to stand up to Grace, and I never had been. She belittled me, walked all over me and ignored my wishes, and I let her. Was this bullying? Was I enabling it?

  Feeling like a traitor, I reached for the iPad, opened a new tab and typed in ‘emotional bullying’ then ‘bullying in female friendships’.

  Verbal abuse such as name-calling; threatening or intimidating behaviour; constant criticism; controlling or manipulating. Eye-rolling. Smirking.

  Hmm. I clicked through a link and ended up on another page.

  Your friend can make you feel like dirt or like you’re the best and only person in the room. She makes you work for her friendship and, when you get it, it feels incredible.

  That sounded familiar.

  There was a click on the landing: Grace’s door opening. I slid the iPad quickly under the duvet just before she knocked on my door and popped her head round without waiting for me to reply. Her hair was down, hanging loosely around her shoulders and her faced was cleansed and shiny with moisturizer.

  ‘Hey. I saw your light was still on. Look, I was thinking about those boxes in the attic. I’d love to look through them?’

  ‘Sure… I’ll bring them down tomorrow.’

  ‘Great. But there’s no time like the present!’ She beamed at me. ‘Just chuck me the key and I’ll get them.’

  I sighed. I didn’t want her alone in the attic with my artwork. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll get them.’

  So Grace went back to her room and I padded up the stairs and hauled the boxes down, locking the attic after me. Grace watched from the rocking chair as I plonked them on the floor in front of her. I straightened up and looked at my hands.

  ‘I’m filthy,’ I said, but she was on her knees, pulling at the peeling tape of one of the boxes I hadn’t opened.

  ‘So exciting,’ she said. ‘It’s like Cash in the Attic!’

  ‘I really doubt there’s anything valuable in there.’

  ‘You never know. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure, and all that.’

  Grace pulled out a blonde doll in a pink nylon dress and peered back into the box. She looked around the room and smiled. ‘Just think, she probably used to live right here.’ She held up the doll as if showing it the room, then spoke in a baby voice. ‘Hello, do you remember this room? Did you used to live here? Is it nice to be back?’

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. ‘You’re nuts,’ I said, backing out of the room, ‘and I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Okay! Sleep well!’ Grace didn’t even look up from the box.

  ‘’Night.’

  I closed my bedroom door behind me, slid back into bed and got the iPad out again. I closed my eyes for a moment before finding my place, back on the emotional bullying page.

  The behaviour is hidden, often wrapped in a package seen as somewhat harmless or just a ‘girl thing’… attempts to defend oneself leads to an escalation of the aggression.

  I shivered and pulled the duvet tighter around me. The air in my room was freezing.

  Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019

  ‘How did Abigail seem to you, when she spoke about Grace? Was it in a positive way?’

  ‘Yes. She said they were best friends at uni. That they lived together on campus and off campus for five years… I got the feeling that Grace used to “look after” Abi, much like how I do these days. As I said, when she’s painting, she’s almost in another “realm”. She’s not entirely there, so to speak. She needs someone with her.’

  ‘And she seemed happy when she told you that Grace was coming to stay?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. It didn’t occur to me that she might not be happy about it. Why would it? I mean, you wouldn’t invite someone to stay with you if you weren’t happy about it, would you? You’d just say, “Sorry, we don’t have the space.” Anyway, the timing worked out really well with me having to go away. We were both relieved, I think. It was the perfect solution.’

  ‘Did she give any intimation as to how things were between them when Grace left for… umm… [shuffles papers]… Australia
?’

  ‘No. No, she didn’t. I assumed they were friends.’

  Twenty-Five

  I set my alarm for seven thirty, thinking I might catch Grace before she went into town to do any necessary admin before starting work the next day: setting up a bank account, changing money. As I made my way downstairs, I paused outside her room and listened, but all I could hear was the house itself, its walls almost ticking off the time as the seconds went by; its rooms yawning caverns of emptiness. Downstairs there was a scrabble of claws and Alfie miaowed, his tail swishing as he looked up the stairs at me.

  ‘Breakfast!’ he yowled. ‘Now!’ so I ran down the stairs to sort him out before he woke Grace.

  I was still waiting at the kitchen table with a coffee at nine o’clock when the doorbell rang. I stiffened. Nobody ever came to the door, unexpectedly: no friends, no neighbours, only deliveries, and I expected those. I waited, but it rang again, so I crept to the door, keeping myself below the level of the windows and peered through the peephole Rohan had installed for me. The tiny circle was filled with the unmistakeable bounce of my mother-in-law’s hair. My heart beat hard in my chest – did I open the door, or not? – but then the letterbox burst open and Meena’s voice shouted through:

  ‘Abigail! Yoo-hoo! It’s me! Oh! There you are!’ This as her hand thrust through the letterbox and jabbed me in the hip.

  Shit. I arranged a smile on my face and opened the door halfway.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, and I waited as Meena straightened herself out. She patted at her hair even though it was, as ever, perfect. She was wrapped up in a black coat that served only to make her look more glamorous.

  ‘Hello, Abigail,’ she said, and I noticed she was holding a paper bag. ‘I just dropped by to see how you are. Now that you’re alone.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  But Meena smiled and tilted her head sideways as she got to the main purpose of her visit: ‘So, have you heard from Rohan?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I wasn’t expecting to. Not so early on.’ I waited but she didn’t go. ‘I’ll let you know when I do?’ I said.

  Meena took a step towards the door so I opened it wider and closed it behind her. We stood awkwardly in the hallway.

  ‘I brought chocolate brioche,’ she said, offering me the paper bag. ‘It’s still warm. Maybe we could have breakfast and call him together? You look like you could do with a nice hot chai.’

  I looked nervously up the stairs, as if Grace might appear at any moment. Meena’s gaze followed mine.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I said, my voice a loud whisper. ‘With the time difference…’

  ‘But I’m sure you could so with some company, anyway,’ Meena said. ‘Alone in this house.’ She shuddered theatrically and edged toward the kitchen.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’m painting. Anyway, I’m not alone.’

  That stopped her. ‘Has something happened?’ The words exploded out of her like fireworks, her eyes saucers. She’d have loved nothing more than for me to have seen or felt evidence of a spiritual visitation; to have good reason to ‘cleanse’ the space; to bring the troupe of aunties around to do whatever they did to release trapped spirits. I knew because it was her favourite topic. If you let her, my mother-in-law would go on and on about the secrets that old houses possessed; the spirits. ‘Energy never dies’ was Meena’s mantra. Needless to say, she and Clive lived in a new-build.

  I gave a little side-eye. ‘God, no! My friend Grace is staying. From university. She came last night.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Meena, with a sag of the shoulders. She nodded slowly and looked back up the stairs as if Grace might miraculously appear. ‘Rohan must have mentioned it, but I forgot. How long is she staying?’

  ‘Until she finds her feet, or Rohan gets back,’ I said. ‘But the main thing is, you don’t need worry about me. I have company.’ I smiled.

  ‘What does she do? Your friend?’

  ‘She’s a doctor.’

  Meena nodded approvingly. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, opening the front door. ‘I was just worried about you, that’s all.’ She gave a little laugh and a waggle of her head. ‘But if you’re not alone…’

  ‘I’m not alone. But thanks for checking. ’Bye, now. I’ll call you.’

  ‘Here, enjoy this with your friend.’ She thrust the bag at me and I closed the door and stood with my back against it.

  ‘Who was that?’ Grace’s voice rang down the stairs.

  ‘Just my mother-in-law!’ I shouted back.

  ‘Checking up on you?’ Grace appeared on the landing, still in her pyjamas, hair all over the place. ‘What, doesn’t she trust you without the wonderful Rohan? Anyway, sorry I’m so late. That blasted cat of yours was yowling outside my room half the night.’

  She found a wholefood market on the internet.

  ‘It’s only a few miles away,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I stock up on a few basics?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ I leaned against the kitchen counter. The morning had brought me positivity. I was stronger now. I knew what I was dealing with. I could cope with Grace.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Great. Let me grab a coffee and I’ll shower then we can go.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You can order online,’ I laughed, but Grace gave me a look.

  ‘I don’t trust some teenager on minimum wage not to do something idiotic like substitute quinoa with lentils,’ she said, widening her eyes at the thought. ‘Besides, I want to choose my food myself. It’s part of the pleasure of eating. Come on, it’ll be fun. Unless you’re painting?’

  ‘No. It’s fine,’ I said, looking out at the rain. ‘I’ll call a cab.’

  The wholefood market was fiddly to get to, involving a complex one-way system. The driver agreed to wait, driving round the block if he got moved on, while we shopped.

  ‘If I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s that you really are what you eat,’ Grace said as she walked around the shop, picking things up and examining them. A bundle of fresh kale (‘for chips, and to add into smoothies’), high-protein pasta, chickpea puffs, cold-pressed juices, red and brown rice, cocoa nibs, apple cider vinegar with mother (‘it’s important’), line-caught salmon (‘never farmed,’ said Grace) and cotton bags of organic fruit and veg all went into the trolley. It didn’t look a lot but it came to as much as I usually spent on a couple of weeks’ shop for Rohan, Alfie and me.

  ‘You should always buy the best you can afford,’ Grace said. ‘It’s investment in yourself.’ She fished about in her bag then paled as she looked at me.

  ‘Shit, I don’t have any British money,’ she said. ‘I only have a few Aussie dollars. I didn’t change any at the airport because the rate was so bad. Oh my God. I’ll put it back.’ She turned to the cashier. ‘Or can you keep it all till I’ve been to a bank?’

  I thought of the cab circling. ‘It’s okay,’ I said and pulled out my purse. ‘I’ll get this. It’s the least I can do after the chicken last night.’ I laughed to show I wasn’t hurt.

  ‘Thanks, Abs,’ Grace said. ‘If you’re sure it’s okay, I’ll pay you back when I’m on top of things. I’ll square it up with you. Thanks a mill.’

  Transcript of interview with Mr Rohan Allerton, husband of Abigail Allerton: 20 December 2019

  ‘Had you asked any family or friends to check up on Abigail while you were away?’

  [Laughs] ‘Obviously my mum. I’d given her a key, just in case, though I hadn’t told Abs that. Mum likes to be involved; to be “useful” so it didn’t surprise me when she said she’d popped round the day after I left. I’m surprised she left it that long! [laughs] And, yeah, she told me that Abs opened the door smelling of alcohol, so I just assumed that she and Grace had had a great old time catching up the night before. Why would I think anything else?’

  Twenty-Six

  I worked much of the day, lost in my third portrait. In this one, Grace would be a little older; slimmer, too, the bone structure of her face beginn
ing to show through now she’d shed the puppy fat of the earlier picture. This portrait was easier for me to paint than the previous two had been: an image of her face at eighteen was ingrained on my soul.

  I worked solidly, almost in a trance as I recalled the qualities of Grace’s face back then: the freckles that danced across her nose after her summer holiday to Thailand; the messy tendril of hair that she shoved impatiently behind her ear when it escaped her ponytail; the shadow that fell at her temples and in the hollow below her cheekbones; the spark of sun glinting on her earrings. It was only when I had to get up to switch on the light that I realized how late it was. I’d come to a natural break in my work, much of the base acrylic laid, so I cleaned my brushes and went downstairs, flicking on lights as I went. Light already spilled from under Grace’s door. I knocked and waited.

  ‘Grace? Are you there?’

  I knocked again, then opened the door slowly. ‘Hello? Grace?’ but the room was empty bar the scent of her perfume. I flicked off the light and pulled the door to as I continued on my way downstairs.

  In the kitchen, I googled ‘kale chips’ and made them as nibbles before a dinner of roast salmon and stir-fried veg. For dessert, I’d sliced a load of fruit – well, she wanted healthy. We ate at eight.