Everyone was sitting at the table, Dad and Mum and Mossy, and the cake stood between them. His mother was wearing her pinny and the silver cake slice she got for her wedding was raised in her hand. Mossy grinned and licked his lips and made slurping sounds, and it was then that Frank realised he wasn’t going to be allowed to have any.
She cut a big slice, extra wide, perhaps to compensate for its thinness. Frank could smell it, could see the thin layer of buttercream knifed through its middle. His mouth watered; he couldn’t help it. His mum had got out the good plates, the ones with the gold rims and little roses around the edge, the ones he and Mossy weren’t allowed to wash up on their own. She held one out for a moment before giving it to Mossy. He didn’t start in; he knew better than that.
She cut another slice and passed it to his dad, who grunted and sat forward in his seat. It wasn’t until then that she looked at him, her eyes sharp. ‘There’s cake for good boys,’ she said.
Dad looked up. He had started in, had a fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Now, Aggie,’ he said. ‘Let the—’
‘There’s cake for good boys,’ she said again, this time with emphasis, and Dad shut up. He knew when he could argue and when he couldn’t and this was one of those times he couldn’t. ‘Not for them as mess about. Not for them as plays silly buggers.’
Mossy, who had picked up his fork, looked at Frank, his eyes wide open. The sound of him catching his breath would almost have been funny under another circumstance, but not this one. Mum never swore. She told Dad off when he cursed, and if he did it on a Sunday, she’d slap his arm.
‘Not for them as – as climbs down walls, and does stupid things, and risks breaking their necks,’ she said, and this time her voice sounded funny and that was worse because she didn’t sound angry any longer. She sounded as if she was going to cry. She cut another slice of cake, balancing it with her thumb, and plopped it onto another plate. She picked it up and slammed it down in front of her own chair. She never slammed the good plates.
No one looked at each other. It was as if nobody knew what they were supposed to do. They had all stopped eating. Only Mum picked up her fork, cut a small piece quite delicately and deliberately, and held it in front of her mouth.
‘Mmm,’ she said, and that was it: her voice had broken some kind of spell. Suddenly Mossy kicked the table leg. He couldn’t seem to sit still. His cheeks were puffed out and air spurted between them. Dad made a choking sound in the back of his throat, then burst out laughing. She clanked her fork down without taking a bite and pushed herself up and started to pile pots on top of each other.
‘Aggie – don’t,’ Dad said. He leaned back in his seat, tears pouring down his cheeks. Frank stared. ‘’E’s learned ’is lesson. Give t’ lad a piece.’
‘I most certainly will not,’ she said, and she turned and bustled towards the kitchen, her arms laden with dinner things.
Dad winked at Frank. ‘Tha’s done it now, lad,’ he said. ‘Tha’s done it now.’
Frank sat there in silence while Dad and Mossy laughed and ate their cake, completely stumped as to what it was he had done.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was well into the afternoon when Frank came downstairs. Mossy hadn’t crowed over him because he’d had cake when Frank had had none, but then, he hadn’t had the chance. He peered into the sitting room, which his dad just called the room. He must have pulled the curtains to stop the glare of sunlight on the telly because it looked dark in there. His mum always complained when he did that; she said it was like a blackout. Frank didn’t know what that meant. Now his dad’s snores drifted from the direction of the settee. He didn’t know if Mossy was sleeping too or if he was just sitting there, all alone, in the dark.
Mum was in the kitchen and it was there that Frank went, pushing open the door very quietly to see her nodding at the table, her arms folded across her chest. The cake was on the side, underneath a wire cover to keep flies off.
He stood in front of her as she breathed deeply, dragging in the air and letting it go with a little foof. He could see the down on her cheek, the mole next to her lip, the eyebrows that were beginning to turn grey, catching up with the rest of her hair. She was older than his friend’s mothers. He wasn’t sure why, except that his dad sometimes joked about how she’d insisted she wasn’t going to get married, that she was married to the farm already. It always seemed strange to Frank that it had been hers and not his dad’s, that she used to do everything all by herself. Then she spluttered and looked up. Her eyes focused and she started to smile, then she frowned again, as if she’d remembered she was supposed to be cross with him.
‘Mu-um.’
‘Yes, our Frank?’
‘I wondered—’ He paused. ‘I wondered if I could have a piece of cake, on’y it’s not for me, it’s for someone else.’
She raised her eyebrows in outrage. ‘Now don’t you dare tell me lies, Frank Watts. If you want cake, tell me you want cake. Don’t go pretending it’s for someone else or I’ll crown you.’
He flinched. ‘It’s not for me, honest. It’s for t’ owd man.’ He pointed, as if his mother could see down the lane and towards the mire from where she sat.
‘Really,’ he added, ‘it’s for ’im. It’s just, he was talkin’ to me t’ other day. Said he lives there all on ’is tod, and there’s no children, no nothing. She – his missus – died.’
His mother’s brow straightened. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I teld yer. ’E teld us.’
‘Told, Frank. He told you.’
‘Tha’s what I said.’
She pursed her lips. ‘E’s not friendly, yon.’ She said it like a challenge. ‘I’ve never known ’im ’ave a word to say to no one.’
Anyone, thought Frank, but he didn’t say it out loud.
‘I took ’im a pie once, long time ago. ’E din’t want it.’
Frank sniffed. ‘Aye, well. Prob’ly not. Can on’y ask though, can’t I?’
‘An you’re not to call ’im t’ owd man. ’E’ll barely be in ’is seventies, if that.’
Frank shrugged: it sounded ancient to him, an impossible age. He didn’t say anything, though, as his mum pushed herself to her feet. She did this as if she was supporting a great weight, and she sighed while she did it. She went over to the cake and lifted the cover and cut a slice. She put it onto a plate – one of the plain ones – and she sucked the chocolate from her thumb before holding it out. ‘You’re to tell Mr Owens I want me plate back,’ she said, and she sat down again at the table, heavily, and with more sighs. Then she looked up as if in surprise. ‘Still ’ere?’
*
As soon as Frank was outside, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done. But now he had the cake he had to keep on going. If he ate it himself, his mum would know. He walked down the lane, stepping carefully, feeling ridiculous. She should have covered it with something. Now it would be all dried up before he got there. Still, the old man probably wouldn’t know any different. Mr Owens, he thought. His name is Mr Owens.
He went in at the gate. It didn’t seem so bad falling under the shadow of the house now that he had a proper reason to be there. He marched up to the porch and knocked. The door was hard against his knuckles and he could imagine the dull sound being swallowed by the hollow rooms within. He didn’t suppose the old man had many visitors. He banged again, louder, and he waited. It felt like a long time before he heard something inside.
The door was yanked open and Frank found himself tilting forwards, as if he was going to fall. Mr Owens looked down at Frank and the plate and then back at Frank, and his expression, for a moment, was empty.
‘I brought you some cake, Mr Owens.’ Frank put on his best voice, his Sunday voice. ‘I thought you might like some. I – I asked me mum.’
The man stared at the cake, sniffing, as if he suspected it might actually be something else. ‘Cake, eh,’ he said.
Frank nodded vigorously. ‘Cake,’ he agreed.
‘Tha’d bes
t come in, then. Watch yer feet.’
He took the plate and Frank followed him into the hall, kicking off his boots at the door like a proper visitor. His feet felt cold at once, and slippery, and he realised the hall had recently been mopped; it glistened with pools of water.
They went into the big room and Mr Owens settled into his wing-back chair, blowing out his cheeks as if the effort had pained him. He held up the cake. ‘Thank you,’ he said, forming the words carefully, as if he too was putting on a Sunday voice. He looked around as if a fork would materialise, and said, ‘Want some?’
Frank shook his head. ‘No, thank you. It’s fer you.’
Mr Owens nodded and tried to pick it up with his fingers. He licked buttercream from them and looked at Frank. ‘P’raps I’ll ’ave it later.’
‘I’m to tek t’ plate back. She said.’
He shrugged and started to eat, scooping rich chunks of cake into his mouth. Frank glanced around. He had thought the arrangement looked temporary before, as if the furniture had momentarily been pushed aside, but it was just the same now. There was something he wanted to ask about, but he didn’t know how to begin.
‘Cat got yer tongue, lad?’
Frank took a deep breath. ‘I thought I saw a lady. At chu’ch. An’ in your garden. I thought I saw ’er twice.’
The man raised his eyebrows and went on scooping up cake. He was eating now as if he was hungry. He made a low grunting noise.
‘I dun’t think she were real.’
Mr Owens looked up sharply. His eyes were narrowed. He didn’t answer.
‘I wondered – I wondered, like, if it was—’ Frank’s words failed him. He shouldn’t be here; he shouldn’t have begun this subject. He was trespassing, any way he looked at it.
Mr Owens stopped chewing. Then he tossed his head and let out an odd rasping noise and Frank realised he was laughing. ‘Tha thinks it’s me missus.’ He put the last of the cake in his mouth and swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed, as if it was an effort. ‘Tha’s what tha thinks.’
‘Aye.’
‘It in’t.’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Tha should come an’ look at summat.’ Mr Owens picked up the crumb-filled plate but he didn’t give it to Frank. He balanced it, instead, on the arm of his chair. ‘Upstairs.’
Frank followed Mr Owens as he led the way back into the hall and up the stairs. He remembered the last time he’d walked up them and his face flushed, but Mr Owens didn’t appear to be thinking about that. He led the way, his unwashed smell trailing behind him, and Frank wished he hadn’t noticed it. It didn’t seem polite to notice the smell of someone when he’d given them cake.
Owens led him to the same room Frank had been in before. He went to the dresser and pulled open the deep bottom drawer. It scraped as if the base was sagging and he took out a photograph album. Frank’s curiosity overcame his reluctance and when Owens opened it, he leaned in.
The pictures looked old. They were held in with little corners so dry they popped off the page as Owens turned them. He stopped when he reached the image of a young man and a young woman. It couldn’t possibly be Mr Owens, not only because he was younger and thinner, but because he was smiling. It was such a happy smile. The girl was shy-looking and had curling hair that Frank thought was golden but couldn’t really tell because it was partially covered by a white veil, and anyway, there was no colour in the picture.
‘Tha’s her.’ His voice held pride in it, and something else that was warmer, and it held sadness too. ‘That who yer saw, was it?’
Frank shook his head.
‘No. She’s not like tha’, is she? Bright, she was. Golden. She med me – she med me smile, and she med me laugh. She wor a good woman, our Lizzie.’ His eyes misted, then seemed to darken. ‘Tha’ other – that in’t ’er, lad. I dunno wha’s up wi’ ’er, but I wun’t go near, not me. She seems – she dun’t seem—’
‘Nice,’ Frank finished for him. ‘She dun’t seem nice.’ He felt Mr Owen’s hand on his shoulder; it made him jump.
‘No, lad, you’ve ’it it there. She dun’t seem nice.’
Frank thought of all the ways he could expand on what he’d said. Dark, he thought. Mean. But none of it was quite right. He wasn’t sure he could sum her up in words, the woman under the yew tree. It wasn’t just the way she looked, but the feeling she gave him. He looked instead at the picture. The woman there did look nice. She was pretty. He put out a finger as if to touch her and drew it back. ‘It’s a shame,’ he said. ‘If yer goin’ ter – see someone, y’ know, who in’t really there – that it should be ’er, and not—’
‘Aye, well, a lot o’ things in’t fair. I ’ave to look at that there bairn all t’ time an’ all, don’t I. Just as if—’ he drew in a long breath, ‘as if I did summat wrong. We never had children, see, an’ seeing that ’un, runnin round t’ ’ouse – it’s like looking at what we never ’ad, ’er and me. The ghost of some sort o’ life we should ’ave lived.’
Frank found he couldn’t look at him. He just stayed there, leaning over and staring down at the photograph. It sounded a little bit as if the old man was crying. Frank wasn’t sure what he even thought about that, let alone what he would say. And then he let out a little cry and he did reach out, touching the surface of the photograph. He had seen the suit that the man in the picture was wearing. It was a three-piece, black, and with three buttons down the front. Frank turned and looked, not at Mr Owens’ face, but at the buttons on his waistcoat. The buttons were straining at the holes, but other than that it was just the same.
‘Aye, lad. Same suit.’
‘But – but why?’ Frank turned and looked at the cupboard set into the corner. He knew there was another suit in there. It had looked cleaner and newer than this one, and it certainly didn’t smell as bad. ‘Why don’t yer wear that other one?’
Mr Owens tilted his head. ‘Now, lad, it’s not polite ter—’
‘I know. Sorry. But why? That ’un looks knackered.’
Mr Owens gave a wry smile. Then he chuckled. ‘This ’ere’s me wedding suit, lad. It’s the suit I wed ’er in and the suit I buried ’er in an’ it’s the suit I should ha’ worn to our bairn’s christening, if we’d been blessed. An’ it’ll be the suit they carry me off in when I’m done, an’ all.’
‘But—’
‘Numore, lad, I teld yer. This ’ere’s me best suit, even if it dun’t look like it. Value in’t just in’t eye o’ the beholder, tha knows. That’s summat our Lizzie always said. Her sisters said she married down, right hoity-toity they was, but she always said you can’t judge owt by its wrapping. Anyway, if I was fussed about all that I’d go about flashin’ my watch-chain and spouting nonsense all ower, like t’other folk do. No: this ’ere’s me best, an’ if t’other folk can’t see that it’s their problem.’
He stared down at the floor. Frank didn’t know where to look. He’d come here feeling all grown-up, doing a kindness for the old man, and now he’d put himself right back where he’d started, a naughty child who was in the doghouse.
‘Now – ne’er you mind me, lad. I’m just grumpy, I ’spose. It’s just, like I said – value in’t in the eye o’ the beholder.’
‘Aye. Well, I’d best get on ’ome.’
‘Course yer did. Yer mum’ll be missin’ yer.’
Frank pulled a face.
‘Summat up?’
‘Not really. She – I were in trouble. Just stuff.’
‘Well, boys will be boys, I ’spose. Anyroad, it were right nice o’ yer to come.’
Frank looked up.
‘Tha can come again, if yer want.’ Mr Owens held out his hand, and Frank stared at it. It took him a moment to realise he was supposed to shake. He put out his own hand and shook solemnly.
‘Now, lad. I’d best get yer that plate, ’adn’t I, before yer go.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The schoolyard was grey under the grey sky, hemmed in by grey walls. Frank was grateful that Mossy
wasn’t around; he was still at little school. He was in no mood to have one of the ‘young ’uns’ trailing after him. During the week Sam preferred the company of the older boys and he was nowhere in sight. There was only a bunch of girls, busy skipping with a piece of elastic; one had a hula-hoop but she couldn’t keep it around her waist. Frank didn’t feel like going to find Sam. He wasn’t sure he wanted company; something about Mire House – the feel of it, the stale air maybe – seemed to have clung to him. He still had a sense of its sadness, as if it had folded itself around him and wouldn’t let go. He thought of the woman he thought he’d seen in the garden, the way he’d worried about her reaching out and touching him – If she grabs a hold of you, you’re dead – and he shivered.
Frank sauntered around the corner, leaned against the side of the building and closed his eyes. Grey, he thought. As if in answer he felt the first warm drop of rain splatter his cheek. When he opened his eyes, Sam was standing in front of him after all. Frank glanced up into the sky. He was no longer sure it was raining; he wasn’t sure where the moisture on his cheek had come from.
There was a smacking noise as Sam let the ball in his hands drop to the paving and caught it again. ‘Ey up,’ he said. ‘You’re t’ keeper.’
Sam, telling him what to do. Sam acting like the leader, just because he was the eldest. Sam, running away up the lane at the first sign of any trouble, dumping his friends because he was chicken. Buk-buk …
‘I’m not playing,’ Frank said.
‘Yes, you are.’
‘Am not.’
Sam’s eyes narrowed and suddenly Frank knew that he was thinking of it, too: the way he’d run away. The way that Frank had seen him run.
‘You’ll do as I say.’
The Unquiet House Page 12
