I hadn’t installed a cooker or hob, but had brought my microwave oven up from Chelmsford. The omission of the cooker left me with no ability to fry or grill. I doubted takeaways would deliver to an off the beaten track address and I already craved a bacon butty. Instead of managing with a full-sized cooker that was too expensive, I was coming round to the idea of a camping stove and putting up with their fiddly gas canisters.
Unloading my shopping into the rickety cupboards – breaking an additional hinge in the process – I anticipated a bland diet of sandwiches and microwave meals. I couldn’t face arguing with the uncompromising solicitor.
Mid-afternoon and I fought to set up my computer. I crawled under the small table to reach the back panel and tried to access a USB port. The tower was a bulky and powerful enough to run the greedy graphic programs that converted scanned pictures into high-resolution images. It had nearly broken my back carrying it upstairs.
When I heard the distant trill of the telephone, I cursed, attempted to reverse out and banged my head on the underside of the table. Without a phone socket, I had to scamper down two flights of stairs to the hallway where I’d plugged the corded handset into the only socket available.
‘Yes,’ I panted.
Guy bellowed a greeting. The line crackled, distorting his voice. He explained about my latest project that I was supposed to be kicking off that week. ‘Did you get it?’
‘Last week. Is there a problem?’ There were minor issues, nothing insurmountable. We chatted and hearing a familiar voice in the echoing hall was a little surreal blanket of normality, comforting me in the midst of the unknown. My restless eyes roved, seeing things I’d rather not: uneven varnish on the stairs, a multitude of broken floor titles and the sprawling highways of cracks in the plasterwork.
With the call ended, I stomped back upstairs. Charging up and downstairs was one way to keep warm.
I’d gotten halfway up the main stairwell when the doorbell rang. The bell was a mechanic ringer attached by wire to the pull handle outside the door. I retraced my steps back downstairs and through the small frosted windows I spied the outline of a person. Tall in stature – a man? I crept forward, wondering who would bother to come out here in the drizzle. Little Knottisham’s welcoming committee?
The door lacked a security chain, so I drew back the bolt and created a vertical crack to peep through. The faceless man presented a slightly hunched back. His cocoa hair was slightly frizzy with damp. The knitted jumper with its baggy polo neck belonged on a fisherman out at sea. The maroon wool glistened with pearls of raindrops. His hands were buried in the pockets of his faded jeans that were torn just below the knees. Pieces of garden twine laced his boots and the excess cord was hooked around his ankles. The creak of the door sounded as I opened it wider and he turned. He lifted his face and straightened his back.
There should be dark eyes to go with the hair rather than translucent ones. The longer than typical sideburns framed his triangular jawline while thin lips and raised cheekbones offset the length of his nose that formed the centre fold of his narrow face. Young, like me, possibly. I couldn’t gauge his age from his complex portfolio of features. He removed his hands from his pockets and took a small step forward.
‘Good day. I mean, hello.’ I craned my neck to hear his soft voice then opened the door a little more.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘I’m sorry, forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you. Rather, I hoped I could help you.’ He smiled, his lips nervously twitching in the corners.
‘Help me?’ I needed to be sorting out my computer issues and not speaking to strangers on the doorstep.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Charles Donaldson.’ A drop of rain slid down the end of his nose.
I shivered as the wind caught the door and almost tore the handle out of my hands. Simultaneously, the corner of the door whacked the side of my foot. Nearly unbalanced by my stumbling hop, I exclaimed. My caller rushed forward and grabbed my hand, preventing me from falling backwards. His cool fingered grip didn’t let go until I’d righted myself. Close up, his bluish eyes appeared hollow and quite disconcerting. I jerked, snatched back my hand, and muttered a thank you. With the door wide open, he stepped into the shelter of the porch and wiped the tiny droplets of rain off his face using a sleeve.
‘How can you help me?’ I repeated.
‘The garden – I can clear the dead wood.’ He waved towards the trees. ‘I’m good with my hands, making things, repairing. Chopping wood.’
‘Chopping wood?’ I repeated, rather more keenly.
My plan to use the fireplace in the dining room depended on finding decent firewood and using an axe with proficiency. I didn’t fancy wielding a sharp weapon. Did I want a strange man on my land with an axe? Another blast of cold air raced past me, as if to remind me not to dally. Don’t look a gift horse in the eye; beggars can’t be choosers – Nana Chambers favoured battery of idioms that she threw about like confetti, reminding me to grab at whatever opportunities came my way.
‘Come in.’
He stepped lightly through the entrance, out of the wind tunnel, and I closed the door behind him.
‘Good gracious,’ he declared loudly. He ignored me and strode across the tiled floor. ‘It’s really all gone. I’d thought something would be left, but it’s everything.’ His voice boomed about the hall and up the stairwell before bouncing back.
‘You know the house?’ I followed him, as he made straight for the library door.
He stood in the middle of the library amongst the dust, a few rusty nails and flaked paintwork, and ran his fingers through his short locks of hair. His expression was one of alarm. ‘There were so many books. Hundreds. Beautiful books. All along this wall.’ He pointed to the remaining bookshelves. ‘She loves books.’
‘Who, Felicity? You knew my great-aunt?’ Any anxiety I had at having a stranger in my house was replaced by blatant inquisitiveness and excitement.
‘Miss Marsters and I were acquainted, yes.’ He touched a bare shelf, wiping the dust off with his fingertips. ‘Friends, I should like to think. She did not mention me?’
‘It was twenty years since I’d last seen her. I visited as a child with my parents. You do know she’s dead? It happened about six months ago.’
He ceased sweeping the shelf and pressed his hand flat on the surface. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I hadn’t heard. Little reaches my ears.’
‘You live in the village?’
‘Nearby.’
A posh name, Bert had said. If Charles was considered posh, then I suspected I was in the presence of Felicity’s odd-job man. Why had he appeared now, after all these years?
‘Charles you said? You were the handyman who helped my aunt,’ I confirmed. ‘And you want to help me?’
He turned to face me and I saw an intense sadness portrayed on his features, almost tearful. His wan complexion appeared sallower and under his soulful eyes, dark shades had materialised. It would seem nobody had told him and given his connection to the house, I wondered why he hadn’t been told.
‘I would be happy to be of service.’ He didn’t look happy.
I thought of my long list of outstanding jobs, many of them beyond my basic abilities at do-it-yourself. ‘I have little money. I’m afraid I could only give you the minimum wage. An hourly rate, cash in hand.’
‘That will be quite acceptable.’ He straightened his shoulders, his eyes brightening. ‘The house needs much doing to it. I had not been aware of its state. She’s been gone longer than I… How strange to see Heachley empty. It’s not right and you must have some decent comforts restored. A young lady such as yourself cannot be without succour.’ He bounded towards the door and once again I strode after him as he headed back to the front of the house. ‘She baked: cakes, bread, pies.’ He flung open the kitchen door. ‘The oven.’ He halted before the hole in the wall. ‘Was here.’ His voice deflated.
‘Was it?’
I peered
into the large letterbox shaped chamber. The iron frame and door must have been ripped off, maybe by the clearance men. The miniature chasm was a blackened shell crumbling inside, about a metre deep and surrounded by exposed brickwork. Below the oven was an iron door welded in place. I assumed behind the shutter was where the location of the coal fire was. Previously, I’d ignored the strange nook, unsure of its purpose, but it made sense – a large flat surface for baking. I stuck my nose into the darkness and inhaled: hot metal and yeast. Another memory of visiting Felicity? Or was the house harbouring more forgotten things on my behalf, slowly leaking them into my subconscious? I stepped back and looked at him.
He stared at the gap with his moonlight eyes. ‘Yes. She spent much time in this room.’
‘It would have made great pizzas.’ I grinned, trying to cheer him up, but he didn’t respond in kind. ‘Would you like a tea or coffee, Charles?’
He walked around the perimeter of the square room – a slow ponderous walk – as if to reacquaint himself with the layout. He studied each side, from the wall of oak cupboards regimented into two rows, each a uniform size and tarnished by overuse to the stretch of granite worktop under which I’d installed my fridge and washer. The exposed brick wall housed the carcass of the absent oven and opposite it, the sash window, that reached to the ceiling, letting in sufficient light that even on a dim day I needed no electric bulbs.
‘No, thank you.’ Charles halted by the sink. ‘This is new, but the cupboards.’ He looked over his shoulder at the broken doors hanging from their hinges, ‘those need repairing.’
‘I’ve only had the time to sort out a few essential things. I moved in at the weekend.’ I switched the urn on. I needed a coffee to warm my chilled bones.
He examined one of the damaged hinges, poking the metalwork with a long finger. He didn’t wear a ring, but that meant nothing these days. ‘She’s been gone a while.’
I couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. His words hung unanswered, as if he was finding his own way to the answer.
‘Five years. She took ill and had to leave suddenly. You didn’t know?’
He paused with his fiddling and sighed a heavy one heralded by a sharp inhale through his nose. ‘I wasn’t needed, so I stopped coming.’
‘She’d ring you, I suppose, if she needed you. Do you have a number I can contact you on?’ I wondered where I’d left a notepad and pen.
‘Number?’
‘Telephone number to reach you.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to simply call by now and again.’ He pointed at the cupboards, ignoring my open mouth as I tried to fathom how that might work out. Charles, on my doorstep – how often? He gave up on the hinge. ‘Would you like me to repair these?’
‘The cupboards? Wow, that would be great. I was going to sand them down and revarnish, but it would mean taking them all down—’
‘I can do that for you. There are tools in the outbuilding. Well, there were…’ He’d left the room before finishing his sentence.
I’d not explored the gardens or the small collection of buildings behind the back of the house, one of which looked like an old garage, the others possibly stables. He marched up to one and pulled on the door. It resisted, briefly, before the bottom scraped along the cobbles of the courtyard. ‘Here,’ he declared inviting me in.
There was the taste of wood; its bitterness was there at the back of my tongue, reminding me of a cooper’s workshop in a distillery. Except there were no barrels. Instead, more cobwebs strung together into a hammock that reached from one side of the makeshift workshop to the other. The converted stable had survived the blitz of the clearance with remarkable fortune. A table, manufactured out of planks, took centre stage under the rotten frame of the window. Laid out on its surface was a collection of carpentry tools, each one covered in crumbs of curled shavings caught in a mat of webbing. Shark tooth saws, old chisels with crinkled handles and a claw hammer. Propped against a wall, an axe. The sharpened edge glinted, catching a shard of light that chased us through the door.
‘It’s all still here. Just as…’ He brushed some of the sawdust off the table with a sweep of his hand. ‘Nobody wanted these?’
The tools were in reasonable condition. ‘I’ve no idea why they were missed. The house was cleared when she fell ill.’
‘A blessing for us, then? I can make good those cupboards and if you like, chop wood for the fire. Would that be of assistance to you Miss… I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?’
‘Miriam Chambers.’
‘Miss Chambers.’
I nearly giggled at his sincerity. ‘Miriam, please.’
I expected a blush or something transparent, because his eyes dropped awkwardly to examine the flagstones. However, his skin remained pale. ‘Miriam,’ he said softly. ‘Pretty name.’
He picked up the axe. ‘Best start before the rain comes down heavy again.’
Charles, the reinstated handyman, went out of the shed towards the wood. I observed him as he paused for a moment to swing the axe and survey the trees. Ahead of him lay fallen branches and a tangle of undergrowth; an unexplored wilderness on my doorstep. The rain had brought with it a sea mist that swirled between the trunks of the oaks and beeches, catching the floating leaves in its wake. With long strides and undaunted by the bleak weather, Charles navigated an unseen path. The cold instigated a rampage of goose bumps across my shoulders and I darted into the scullery or utility; another empty room I’d chosen to ignore.
By the time I’d reached the kitchen window Charles had vanished. I hovered there for a few minutes, listening to the urn whistling. I brewed a coffee and headed back up to the attic. I still had to hook a printer up to the computer. I would miss the Internet and the connection to the outside world, but not the spaghetti cables.
I lost track of time while tinkering and cursing at the error messages; the printer refused to feed paper. The deluge of rain on the roof snapped me out of my frustrating battle. How could I have forgotten Charles so easily?
Reaching the ground floor, I paused to listen and other than the pattering on the windowpanes; I heard nothing. It had been over two hours since he’d gone to chop wood. With the light fading fast, I hurried outside, sprinting across the courtyard to the shed. There, lined up against the wall, was a mountain of chopped logs stacked neatly and with the bark side up. The shiny axe was propped against the wall.
‘Charles,’ I shouted out of the door, but it was obvious he’d gone home. I felt somewhat guilty that he’d done all this backbreaking work and left without me paying him. I’d no way of contacting him, which seemed a peculiar arrangement and one that made little sense.
EIGHT
The dining room, the smallest of the reception rooms, was the easiest to heat since it faced east and caught the morning sun. Scattered about in boxes and crates, my worldly possessions – those things I considered useful and important enough to bring with me. They would need unpacking, sorting, but without cupboards or durable shelves, I had no storage. Perhaps if I asked Charles sweetly, he might build me some cupboards.
I rifled in one box and dug out my iPod and docking station. The soulless house needed some kind of sound. I’d made a decision not to bring a television. My existing flat screen was bolted to the wall and given the hassle of mounting it in the first place, I’d no plans to dislodge it. I’d not seen an aerial on the roof of Heachley Hall and I suspected Great-aunt Felicity had no interest in televisions. However, I couldn’t stand the silence. While I worked, I’d often listened to music and I concluded the radio would suffice for the duration of my stay. The television would distract, keep me from work and since my spare time was better spent renovating the hall’s interior, my evenings shouldn’t be wasted watching reality TV or soap operas, not that I cared much for them.
Armed with my entertainment system, I headed upstairs to continue my fraught attempts at starting some real work. As I passed the landing I noticed the closet door was ajar, which
was odd given the effort required to open it. I reached out to shut it and it rocked, waving slightly, and as my fingers touched the freezing doorknob. The door slammed shut; the noise reverberated about the house and the vibrations reached my feet.
What was it about that door? I wiped my clammy palm on my trousers. I refused to be freaked out by stupid draughts.
·•●•·
Later, after I’d eaten another round of soup and bread and treated myself to a cupcake, Ruth called. I lacked a chair in the hallway – another oversight. While I brought my friend up to speed with my news, I leaned on the dusty wall.
‘Do you trust this Charles?’ The line hissed rhythmically, and I adapted to the interference by filling in the odd constant or missing syllable.
I pursed my lips and traced a thin crack in the wall with the tip of my finger. ‘Yes, I suppose.’ He’d done what I asked – chopped wood – and far more than I’d anticipated. ‘It’s just, he turns up the day after I arrive, but didn’t know Felicity is dead.’
‘You didn’t find out for months. She’d been gone for five years, living on the other side of the county, debilitated and unable to communicate.’
‘You would have thought Maggie or somebody would have told him.’
‘Rural communities aren’t like The Archers, they don’t live in each other’s pockets. He came by, saw your car and chanced it.’ Ruth had grown up in a tiny village and understood country life, whereas I’d lived all mine in towns or cities. However, I couldn’t imagine a reason why Charles happened to be down my lane without an explanation.
‘He didn’t give me a mobile number.’ I slid my back down the wall and crouched.
‘No reception in the area, remember?’
The line went silent – almost silent. It was as if somebody was listening: splintered sounds stuttering down the line.
The Women of Heachley Hall Page 6
