The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  ‘Can you fix them?’ I pointed to the loose tiles.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, with a nod of his head. ‘There’s a ladder behind the shed.’

  ‘There is? I don’t want you to do anything dangerous.’

  ‘Have no fear for my safety, Miriam, I will come to no harm.’ He grinned, a remarkable charming expression that enveloped his face, and, for a moment, his pale irises darkened as his pupils dilated.

  I snatched a breath and lost the ability to speak. I was blushing. Even in the cold air, I felt the heat of a blush bloom over my chilled face. I wanted to deny the existence of the prickling sensation at the back of my neck, the warning buzz that came when I was in the close proximity of a man. It was no good. His masculine energy had awoken something forgotten, something banished to the back of my mind: my neglected love life.

  While watching the wisps of smoke, my last so-called beau superimposed itself over the grey skies. Jordan Buller bounced onto the memory stage, grinning and wrapping an appreciative arm around my shoulders. A thickset bloke with chubby cheeks and a nervous giggle when we… I opened my eyelids to find Charles raising an eyebrow in my direction, his head cocked to one side. I said nothing to explain my abrupt daydreams. Instead, I stuffed my hands in my trouser pockets. I’d been harsh in my recollection, more likely it had been Jordan’s bottomless generosity when it came to nights out or gifts that had kept him attractive and good company. However, it had taken me a few months to see that he had little else to offer, and neither had I.

  Satisfied the chimney was functioning correctly, we returned indoors. Charles collected his next cupboard door and headed to the outbuilding. I started to climb the stairs, reforming the image of a comical guinea pig in my head.

  I reached no farther than the mid-flight of steps when a knock at the front door halted my ascent.

  TEN

  Bert dragged the stepladder out of the boot of his estate car.

  ‘Thank you.’ I opted to stay out of the rain and shouted from the doorstep. ‘You didn’t have to bring it up straightaway.’ I’d called the pub earlier in the day to beg for the favour.

  ‘No problem. Glenda says you might need it for a while.’

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.’

  Bert carried the metal stepladder into the house and propped it against the wall. ‘Really, you can have it. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of use for it.’ He glanced up at the ceiling and I followed his gaze.

  The cobwebs hung from the corners, tangled and dusty – had they been spun recently or years ago? For how long could a spider’s web last?

  ‘I’ll be able to clear those.’ Then I gestured towards the door. ‘And fix the bell.’

  Bert swivelled and flicked the loose wire with his finger. ‘Did I make you jump with my knock?’

  I managed a feeble chuckle. ‘Just a little.’

  The house had captured Bert’s attention. He crossed to the bottom of the staircase where the individual steps had lost their sheen and acquired the dull imprint of countless footprints. Ruth and I had swept the whole set, hoping to re-establish the stairs’ former glory. However, the wood needed a proper polish to retrieve the gnarled grain in the oak and deepen the colouration.

  Bert remained fixated on the blank wall at the bottom of the staircase. ‘That must have been the location of the doorway.’ He pointed at the cracks in the painted plasterwork.

  ‘Door?’ The fractures had formed in their meandering a particular perpendicular arrangement. I stepped back and mapped the outline of a hidden doorframe.

  ‘Here.’ He gestured with an arm, sweeping it from one side to the other in an arc. ‘The other end of the house stood here. Must have been grand in its time.’

  ‘What other end?’ I skated my palm along the wall and felt a small indentation – a perceivable difference in the thickness of the plasterwork.

  ‘I thought you knew.’ Pink freckles appeared on his cheeks, as if my ignorance embarrassed him as much as it did me. He ruffled his ginger beard, twirling the ends through his fingertips and twitched his nose. The man had a plethora of little eye-catching habits that overlaid an endearing boyishness on his wrinkled face.

  ‘The house – t’were much bigger until part of it burnt down.’ Bert had confirmed what Tony had said about fire, but the farmer hadn’t mentioned the shrinkage in size as a consequence of the damage. The revelation explained the clause in the mysterious will regarding building an extension out to where the original house once stood.

  I moved farther away from the wall and tried to picture the layout of the building. As well as the blocked door next to the bottom of the stairs, upstairs the landing came to an abrupt end – passed the bedroom where Felicity had slept, to where the strange little closet occupied a stretch of wall. If that opening had been the continuation of the original house, then the symmetry made more sense: a stairway sweeping up the three sides of the central atrium, climbing to the gallery where the bedrooms led off around the landing.

  ‘How much bigger?’

  Bert pulled a face. ‘Don’t rightly know. This fire happened long ago, a hundred years or so, at least. Although, it’s still the talk of the village. Probably because it’s common knowledge that Heachley Hall could once have rivalled some of the grander stately homes in these parts.’

  If he referred to Sandringham, I doubted Heachley Hall had been that spectacular in comparison. Outside, where the missing wing once stood, was a neglected and overgrown garden area with a formal layout of rose beds, low hedges and dwarf walls. The rooms possessed no viewpoint of this garden because of the absence of windows. The extent of the garden appeared to represent the scale of the original building.

  Bert cleared his throat. ‘I reckon you could see the original size by going in the cellar. The burnt out rooms were demolished but the foundations remain underground.’ He tapped one of his boots on the tiles and the metal toecap echoed across the hall.

  The cellar.

  Mr Bridge’s appraisal had listed the presence of the basement—’Nothing of value down there.’ In retrospect, I suspected he hadn’t explored it and had probably stuck his nose in and dashed out. Bert, who licked his lips and bounced on his heels like an expectant dog awaiting his daily walk, had aroused my inquisitive nature. I also owed him a favour.

  ‘Let’s take a look,’ he suggested. ‘I can spare a few minutes.’ Bert’s watch remained covered by his shirtsleeve – Glenda maintained Bert’s schedule. ‘We’ll need a torch.’

  He waited in the kitchen while I fetched the LED torch from my bedroom. Since he took it out of my hand, I let him take the lead. The entrance to the cellar was in the scullery. A rickety door with a loose doorknob and a small sliding bolt. Bert aimed the torch light down the stone steps and its beam lit up another door at the bottom. The paint had peeled off the surface leaving the darkened wood bare and splintered in places.

  On my own, I’d never have dreamed of going into the cellar. It seemed a pointless exercise to know what lay beneath my feet. My reticence wasn’t born out of a fear of dark places, merely the thought of a dank smelly cellar with rats and probably an accumulation of junk.

  Bert gave the lower door a nudge and it creaked – a high pitch groan, as if we’d awakened the portal from a slumber. Protesting doors seemed to be a common feature of Heachley Hall.

  I peeped over Bert’s shoulder, which wasn’t difficult given his short stature. A pungent smell emerged out of the gloom and it wafted up my nostrils. I wrinkled my nose at the unpleasant concoction of aromas: damp, mildew, wet stone and stale air. Thankfully, I didn’t smell anything putrid.

  Bert banked the light from left to right, gradually uncovering white-washed walls, which had flaked off in places to reveal red bricks. Alcoves were scattered about the outer perimeter wall, forming sunken tombstones with their arched recesses. Alien to the original fabric were the steel support columns – a later modern addition to re-enforce the house. Rubble lay strewn across the uneven flagstones:
splintered wooden planks, shattered bricks, broken glass and all manner of fragmented man made materials.

  ‘Careful with your feet,’ Bert warned, stepping farther into the cellar.

  He kicked aside a piece of glass with the steel-capped toe of his cowboy boot. With his back to me, Bert’s rocking gait and bowed legs gave the impression he’d just dismounted a fat horse. Swaying side to side, he continued to explore with the torch as we crept forward, tiptoeing passed the worst of the rubbish. He hovered his light towards a far wall. Neat rows of small round holes had been chiselled out of one section.

  ‘What are those for?’ I asked.

  ‘For storing wine bottles,’ concluded Bert and since he was a pub landlord, he was probably correct. ‘Kept them cool and safe. This area must have been a small wine cellar. Given its proximity to the kitchen, they might have had a cold storage area for meat and cheese. Any cupboards have long gone.’ He shone the torch on the smashed wooden shelves then shifted the beam. ‘Coal bunkers.’ The metal boxes lined the opposite wall and beneath their shuttered doors, the coal dust had turned flagstones the black.

  ‘I wonder if there’s some left.’ I meant it as a joke, but Bert was curious, which meant I had to follow him. We moved out of the light cast by the open door and with only the torchlight for guidance we examined the coal bunkers.

  Bert lifted one lid cautiously and peered inside. ‘Empty,’ he said.

  The box contained nothing, not a scrap of coal. He moved the torchlight up the grubby walls until he exposed the wooden slats of the low ceiling. A small trapdoor lay directly above the bunker. ‘Coal chute for deliveries.’

  He circled the light about and uncovered more nooks. In one corner was a pile of wheels: big bicycle ones with snapped spokes and shredded tyres. There were also small tyres joined by an axel.

  ‘Pram wheels?’ I guessed.

  ‘Maybe. Right size.’ He kicked one and the axle sheared away with a clatter. ‘Come on, let’s see what it’s like on the far side.’ He aimed the light at the gap in the wall between the partitioned sections of the cellar.

  I followed his footsteps as we scrunched our way through the debris of a forgotten basement. I hugged myself protectively and focused on the narrow beam of the torch. That proved hard, the darkness drew my attention away like a magnet.

  Thick blackness, almost solid and touchable. What lurked in it was a mystery since without the torchlight it was impossible to see even a glint or outline of what lay hidden in the murky depths of Heachley’s cavernous cellar. Pitch black some might say. Pitch, like tar, is glutinous and oily, and I seemed to swim across it, suffocated by what felt like a lack of breathable air. With each footfall, the icy moisture increased the turbidity and only the blue glow of the LED bulbs offered salvation from the oppressive weight of darkness.

  I blinked several times before focussing hard. Were rats scurrying through the scattered trash? The more I imagined what could be hidden in the invisible spaces of the cellar, the more I heard accompanying sounds: fluttering, scuttling, squeaking and then a dismal creak.

  I halted while Bert continued to creep forward. My ears were alive to the subtlest of noise, especially our breathing, which filled the fetid air with exaggerated rasps – quite unnatural, as if forced. I held my breath and listened.

  It sounded like a sigh or a small rush of air. Had something brushed past me? I froze, waiting for it to happen again. Nothing.

  I muttered a curse.

  ‘What?’ asked Bert, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘Just my imagination getting carried away. I felt something.’

  ‘I think there’re bats.’ He waved his torch up into the rafters. Cobwebs and an abandoned wasp nest hung in the crevices, but no sign of bats. ‘Do you want to go back up?’

  I shook my head, then realised he couldn’t see my gesture. ‘No, I’m not scared, just the darkness plays havoc with my imagination.’

  Bert chuckled and held out his hand. ‘Here, hold my hand if you like.’

  My heart had already kicked up a thrumming racket in my ears before he’d even offered his comforting hand. What alarmed me? Was it the nothingness inhabited by vermin? The detritus of bygone inhabitants and the vacuum left by neglect? No, what troubled me was how a once splendid house sat upon such a bleak place and that amongst the aged foundations lurked rubbish and crumbling brickwork. Even the addition of later structural supports worried me.

  Modern houses had deep foundations and damp courses. Building regulations dictated the beginnings of a house. Heachley Hall had been built in a time when custom determined the structure. I didn’t like what I saw down here because it reminded me of the fragility of things we assumed to be strong and reliable.

  I took Bert’s hand, not out of fear, but because I detested the cellar; a useless space without a function and destined to be forgotten or misused. If I intended to keep the house, I would fill it in.

  ‘There.’ He reached out with his torch. ‘There’s the current outer wall. See beyond, the cellar continues.’

  It did; the flagstones vanished as we stepped onto dirt. The natural ground beneath the house, soil and ground down stones, congealed into a platform. It squelched slightly and sucked my shoes in. I gasped and gripped Bert’s hand tighter. The temperature dropped and my breath hazed in front me forming a white cloud. He flashed the light about the cellar. The whitewash had disappeared and in its place the walls were charcoal black and barely perceivable in the darkness. Entrenched beneath and about Bert’s feet, dust: the familiar white particles I’d seen floating about upstairs. Somehow the plague of dust managed to seep up through the floorboards, and then beyond.

  I sniffed. The air smelt different, too. Even after decades, I detected burnt wood: an acrid lingering odour, like a bonfire in a neighbour’s garden or a firework popping off at a display – invisible, but there.

  Bert stretched out his arm into the void. ‘Looks like it was several yards longer, perhaps two extra rooms down this side of the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured, uninterested in the dimensions. ‘So, all this burnt down?’ The scale of the fire, the heat generate to blacken the cellar walls and obliterate the missing salons, must have been substantial. With no fire service to battle a blaze, the fact the rest of the house survived was amazing.

  ‘Don’t rightly know,’ Bert answered. ‘T’were pulled down, I should think. Fire must have caused a lot of damage.’

  A door slammed shut and the noise reverberated along the cellar in waves, shifting the air into a breeze. An icy blast of air caught the back of my neck. Dust swirled up from the floor billowing into a white mass, while at the same time, projecting out of the walls, a veil of soot formed a blackened cloud. The two seemed loathed to touch one another and shrank away to be conquered by gravity. Awoken by the abrupt disturbance, squealing and scuttling sounds emanated near my feet. Bert spun around and blinded me with the torchlight. He let go of my hand. With my heart pounding against my breastbone, I emitted an unintentional cry of alarm.

  ‘Draught catching the door,’ he declared.

  I’d enough of weird air currents. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ I snatched the torch out of his hand and hurried to retrace our steps.

  Back in the scullery I switched off the torch. Bert secured the door, heaving it to with a yank of his arm. My near asthmatic throat squeezed tight and I rasped breathlessly – I’d dashed across the cellar to reach the stairs, scattering unknown objects with my feet, hoping they weren’t furry and alive.

  ‘That was fascinating.’ He grinned, turning to face me, then his expression altered: his moustache drooped and the smirk disintegrated.

  I blinked, adjusting to the bright light, and bit back a less than polite retort. ‘You said this house was haunted,’ I reminded him of the conversation at the weekend. ‘Did you fancy a little ghost hunt, is that it?’ I blurted.

  He started, surprised by my acidity. ‘I said Maggie thought that,’ he corrected. ‘I’m sorry, I should nev
er have mentioned it. She liked to watch those paranormal telly programs. You know the type, hidden cameras in old houses. Drove her husband nuts with her spooky stories. She thinks anything more than twenty years old is haunted, including our pub. Saw things everywhere. Forget it.’

  ‘I bloody can’t, can I.’ I walked into the kitchen and he followed on my heel. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ I added over my shoulder.

  ‘Nor do I,’ he said, ‘I do like old houses and this place has mysteries to solve; it makes it fun. You should see your time here as an adventure.’

  ‘An adventure,’ I snorted weakly, making short shrift of his lightly directed humour. I didn’t mean to be hostile. It was time to lose the strange sense of misconstrued antagonism towards Bert.

  The fear of financial ruin, of drifting without purpose, was crowding my thoughts. Lighten up, Dad would have said, after one of his increasingly frequent trips to Greece. At the time, he’d bombarded me with seemingly frivolous advice, which I’d treated as insulting. She, the invisible Aegean beauty who had tempted him out of his austere office and into her olive skin arms, had edged Dad into a flamboyant lifestyle, so unlike the penny counting one he’d practised when Mum had been alive. Would he have been so flippant if my mother had survived and she had inherited Heachley? I couldn’t blame Dad for seeking succour in the company of another – she had relieved him of the constant burden of grief. Such a pity his renewed exuberance for fast living hadn’t extended to learning how to steer a speedboat.

  I turned away from the empty oven hole and dismissed the memories. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m a little stressed. This place is a millstone around my neck,’ I said.

  Bert replenished his sanguine cheeks. ‘You don’t have to go down there again.’

  ‘I don’t plan to.’ I lay the torch on the worktop and sighed. Amongst the angst about my impending austerity, the image of a once splendid hall had recaptured my curiosity about my aunt. ‘But you’re right, I am intrigued by the cellar’s secret. Didn’t Felicity have anything to say about the fire?’