House of Echoes

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘So many of the children die.’ Unconsciously Joss put her hands protectively over her stomach.

  He frowned. ‘You shouldn’t perhaps read too much into infants’ deaths. Such high mortality is profoundly shocking, but remember, in every age but our own such things were normal.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She was staring at the booklet in her hands:

  Four major rivers find their sources in Belheddon Ridge, a sandy, gravel escarpment which cuts across the clays of East Anglia in an east west slash through the landscape, visible for miles, she read. Such a place was an obvious candidate for early settlement and indeed there is archaeological evidence of an iron age camp under what is now the west lawn of the house …

  She turned the pages eagerly. ‘There never seems to have been one family in the house for any length of time,’ she said at last. She glanced up at him. ‘From the letters and diaries I’ve been studying and the family Bible there seem to be so many names, although they are related.’

  ‘Female descent.’ Andrews reached for another biscuit. ‘It happens. If you look you will find the house was nearly always inherited by daughters, so of course the surname changes generation after generation. Not every time. There were years when it stood empty and when it had tenants, but it seems always to have come back in the end to some relation or other. It’s had a longer history in one family than you might think.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked up at him eagerly. ‘We’re not descended from the de Veres?’

  ‘Oh almost certainly. That was something which intrigued me, as I was telling Dr Tregarron. The trouble is I didn’t have enough time to follow it through in detail – you could get a genealogist to do it, I suppose, if you were interested. Matrilineal descent is a fascinating phenomenon. Strange to us but a matter of course to some people. In this case obviously it wasn’t a policy decision, it just worked out that way. No sons.’ He stuffed his biscuit into his mouth and glanced at his watch. ‘I hate to seem too eager, Mrs Grant, but you said I might glance at some of the main rooms.’

  ‘Of course.’ Reluctantly Joss put down the book. ‘I’ll show you round.’

  In the course of the next hour Joss was given a potted, breathless and ecstatic history of the English manor house, taking in pargetting, chamfering, stopping, plasterwork, the art of the fresco (‘Almost certainly, under this panelling. The panelling would protect it, you know,’) staircases, solars, bedchambers and the great hall as centre of the house. Her head reeling, Joss followed in his wake, wishing again and again she had a tape recorder with her to take down this man’s encyclopaedic knowledge. He laughed when she told him as much. ‘I’ll come again, if you let me. We can make notes. Now, the cellar.’ They were standing at the foot of the main staircase and his nose was quivering like a dog’s scenting a rabbit. ‘There we may see traces of early vaulting.’

  Joss pointed at the door. ‘Down there. Do you mind if I don’t come down? I get claustrophobia.’ She laughed deprecatingly, aware of his sudden shrewd gaze.

  ‘Am I tiring you, Mrs Grant? I know I go on and on. I used to drive my wife mad. The trouble is I get so excited about things.’ Already he had fumbled awkwardly with the key, swung open the door and found the light switch. She watched as he disappeared, hampered by his stiffness, down the steep stairs, then she turned away into the study. She waited by the window, staring out across the lawn. Hours seemed to pass. Frowning she glanced at her watch. Wafting across the great hall from the kitchen she could smell onions and garlic. Lyn must be putting on the lunch while Tom would be watching Sesame Street on the TV. There was no sound from the cellar. She walked across to the door and peered down the stairs anxiously. ‘Mr Andrews?’ There was no answer. ‘Mr Andrews?’ There was a sudden tightness in her chest. ‘Are you all right?’

  She could feel the cold air rising. It smelled musty and damp and somehow very old. With a shiver she put her hand on the splintery banister and leaned forward, trying to see into the first cellar. ‘Mr Andrews?’ The stairs were very steep, the old worn wood split and pitted. Reluctantly she put her foot on the first step. ‘Mr Andrews are you all right?’ The unshaded bulb was very bright. It threw the shadows of the winebins, black wedges across the floor. ‘Mr Andrews?’ Her voice was shaking now, threaded with panic. Clutching the rail she crept down another two steps. This was where Georgie had fallen, his small body hurtling down the steps to lie in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Shaking the thought out of her head she stepped down again, forcing herself down the steps one by one. There was a sudden movement on the wall near her. She froze with terror, staring, and her eyes focused at last on a small brown lizard, clinging to the stone. It stared back at her and then with a flick of its tail it ran up the wall and disappeared through a crack into the darkness behind the wall.

  ‘Mrs Grant, look at this!’ The voice, so loud and excited, right behind her, made Joss jump round with a small cry. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. Did I startle you?’ Gerald Andrews appeared through the arch which led into the next cellar. ‘Come and see. There is the most perfect medieval vaulting through here. Very early. Oh, I wish I’d known about this when I wrote the book. It takes the date of the original house back I should say to the thirteenth or fourteenth century …’ Already he had disappeared through the arch again, beckoning her to follow.

  Taking a deep breath Joss made her way past the gleaming ranks of bottles, awaiting the visit and tasting next week from the wine expert from Sotheby’s, and found herself staring up at the stone arches of the second cellar.

  ‘You see, under the great hall. A flint undercroft, built of the same stuff as the church.’ He was spluttering with excitement. ‘And the carving, here, on the key stone and the corbels, see?’ He beamed at her. ‘You have a treasure here, Mrs Grant, a real treasure. This vault has been here if I’m right for six or seven hundred years.’

  ‘Seven hundred?’ Joss stared at him, her fear subsiding as his enthusiasm increased. She hugged herself against the chill.

  He nodded, patting the wall. ‘May I bring a colleague to see this? And someone from the Historic Buildings department? It is quite wonderful. And here, all along!’

  She smiled. ‘Of course you may. How exciting. You may have to bring out a new edition of your book.’

  He laughed. ‘How accurately you read my thoughts, my dear. I’m a silly old fool, I know. I get so carried away, but it is so exciting. It’s suddenly seeing history before you – the bones of history – the actual fabric within which events took place.’

  ‘Would this have been a cellar then?’ Joss glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘Maybe. An undercroft, a storeroom, even a well chamber.’ He laughed, staring round. ‘But no well.’

  ‘The well is in the courtyard.’ She was edging back towards the stairs, trying to draw him away from his wall. ‘Why don’t we go up, Mr Andrews. It’s so cold down here. You can always come back.’

  He was stricken. ‘How selfish of me. I’m sorry, my dear. You do look cold. Of course we must go.’ He cast one last longing glance back at his vaulting and followed her to the staircase.

  Lyn and Tom were still deeply engrossed in cooking supper when at last she waved Gerald Andrews down the drive, so, reaching for her coat, Joss opened the back door and went out into the dusk. Beyond the lake a small gate in the hedge led out into the lane. A few hundred yards’ walk led up to the back of the field from where she could look down on the estuary and out towards the dark sea. She stood for several minutes, her hands in her pockets, looking down at the water then with a shiver she turned back into the lane, which with its thickly tangled hedges was more sheltered. Slowly she walked back, savouring the sweetness of the smell of spring flowers and wet earth and sodden bark after the salt sharp tang nearer the sea. From here she could see the silhouette of the church tower, and now and then, from a higher point on the bank the roofs of the Hall. In the deep shade between the hedge banks it was cold and damp and she shivered again, hurrying to get back.

&
nbsp; As she let herself in through the wicket gate by the rowan tree she saw a boy standing by the lake. He had his back to her and he seemed to be standing staring down into the water. ‘Sammy?’ Her whisper was choked with fear. ‘Sammy!’ This time it was a shout. The boy did not turn. He did not seem to hear her. Running now, she crossed the lawn, round thickets of elder and winter dead hawthorn shrouded in ivy, and burst out on the bank of the lake near the little landing stage.

  There was no one to be seen.

  ‘Sammy!’ Her cry put up a heron which had been standing motionless in the shallows on the far side of the water. With an angry harsh cry it lifted laboriously into the evening sky and skimmed the hedge out of sight.

  ‘Sammy,’ she whispered again. But he was gone. If a real child had been playing by the water the heron would have flown away long before she arrived on the scene.

  She put her hand to her side with a small grimace. Her desperate run across the grass had given her a stitch. Frowning with pain she doubled over for a minute, then slowly she began to walk back towards the house.

  Lyn and Tom were in the kitchen. Tom’s face, covered in chocolate, betrayed the fact that they had now reached the stage of preparing the pudding.

  ‘You OK?’ Lyn glanced at Joss as Tom ran to her and gave her knees a sticky hug.

  Joss grimaced. ‘A bit of a stitch. Silly.’

  ‘Go and sit down by the fire. I’ll bring you another cup of tea.’ Lyn slid her baking tins into the oven. ‘Go on. Off with you.’

  The fire in the study was almost out. Bending down wearily Joss threw on some logs and a shovel of coal, then she picked up David’s notes and sat down in the old armchair. Her back was aching now too and she felt inordinately tired.

  When Lyn came in half an hour later with a cup of tea she was fast asleep. For a minute Lyn stood staring down at her, then with a shrug she turned away. She did not leave the tea.

  ‘Luke!’ Joss’s cry turned into a gasp as a violent cramp tore her out of her sleep. ‘Luke, the baby! Something’s wrong.’ Miserably hugging her stomach she slipped to her knees on the carpet. ‘Luke!’

  There was a hand on her shoulder. Gentle, caressing, he was there. Sobbing she reached up to grip his knuckles. The lightest touch across her back, fingers rubbing her shoulders. She could smell roses. Where had Luke found roses at this time of year? Her hand groped for his. There was no one there. Shocked, she stared round, another kind of fear flooding icily through her as she realised the room was empty. ‘Luke!’ Her voice rose to a shriek.

  ‘Joss? Were you calling?’ The door was pushed open and Lyn put her head round it. ‘Joss? Oh God! What’s the matter?’

  Luke drove her to the hospital. His face was white and Joss kept noticing the smear of oil across his left cheek. She smiled fondly. Poor Luke. He was always being dragged away from his precious car.

  The pains had stopped now. All she felt was a strangely overwhelming tiredness. She could hardly move. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Even her fear for the baby couldn’t keep her awake.

  She was vaguely aware of being wheeled in a chair from the car to a lift, and of being put into bed then she was lost in velvety blackness. Twice she woke up. The first time Simon Fraser was there, sitting at her bedside, holding her wrist. He smiled, his sandy hair flopping round his face, his glasses reflecting distorted images of the side ward where they had put her. ‘Hello there.’ He leaned forward. ‘Welcome back to planet Earth. How are you feeling?’

  ‘My baby –?’

  ‘Still there.’ He grinned. ‘You’re going up for a scan a bit later, just to make sure all is well. Rest now, Joss.’

  When she woke again Luke was there. The smear was gone from his face and he was wearing a clean shirt, but he was as pale and strained as before. ‘Joss, darling. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Is the baby all right?’ Her mouth felt like sandpaper. Her voice was husky.

  ‘Yes, it’s fine.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. ‘What happened? Did you fall?’

  She shook her head slowly, feeling the coarse cotton of the pillow slip abrading her hair. ‘No. I was asleep.’ She had run across the lawn, she remembered that. It had given her a stitch. Then someone had been there, in the study with her. Someone had touched her. Not Luke. Not Lyn. The touch had not been frightening; it was as if someone had been trying to comfort her, to help. She drew her brows together, trying desperately to remember but already she was feeling sleepy again. ‘I can’t stay awake.’ Her mouth refused to form the words properly.

  Luke’s face was swimming, suddenly huge, close to hers. ‘I’ll leave you now. You must sleep. I’ll come back later.’ She felt the touch of his lips, but already she was slipping back into the dark.

  Later they took her to another ward. Someone smeared her stomach with jelly and ran something cold and hard across it.

  ‘There you are. Can you see the screen, dear? There. The little mite is all safe, curled up out of harm’s way. See?’

  Joss peered obediently at the flickering blurred screen beside the bed. She could not make out anything, but her relief at the radiographer’s words was enormous. ‘Is it all right? Can you tell?’

  ‘It’s fine. Absolutely fine.’ The woman was wiping her stomach with tissues and pulling down her gown. ‘You’re going to have a beautiful June baby.’

  Already they were pulling back the curtains, wheeling her away, bringing in the next patient.

  Simon Fraser was waiting for her when they brought her back to her bed. ‘I had to visit another couple of patients, so I thought I’d look in on you again. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better.’ Joss eased herself up on her pillows.

  ‘Good.’ He put his head on one side. ‘Home, then rest for a couple of weeks. I’ve spoken to your sister. She says she can cope with everything. Is that right?’

  Joss laughed weakly. ‘She’s very good at coping.’

  ‘Good. You’ve got to make up your mind to rest, Joss. I mean that.’

  When she got home she found that the whole family had been suborned. She was firmly escorted to bed and there, she discovered, she had to stay even when Sotheby’s came to collect the wine from the cellar for the auction.

  They told her about it that evening. ‘You should have seen the care they took packing it all up. It was treated like gold dust. They said the labels and capsules had to be kept in as good condition as possible. I hardly dared breathe as I watched them.’ Luke sat down on the bed after he and Lyn and Tom came up when the van had finally left. ‘It could be our bail money, Joss. When he examined it the man from Sotheby’s said it looked good. The cellar conditions are perfect. So, here’s hoping the auction goes well.’

  It was something to distract her. And so was the return of David a few days later.

  ‘Books. Articles. A letter from your new publisher!’ He tipped an armful of things onto the bed and then hauled himself up onto the counterpane next to her.

  ‘My new publisher?’ She stared at him, hardly daring to hope.

  He nodded, clearly delighted. ‘He liked your outline and the chapters you sent him. I think he’s given you a few suggestions in the letter and made one or two notes which he thinks will be helpful. And he’s prepared to give you a contract and a small advance. No –’ He raised his hand to forestall her excitement. ‘It won’t be enough to retile the roof, but it is a start. And it means you have a perfect excuse to lie here in bed composing wonderful prose and be waited on hand and foot by Luke and Lyn while that baby of yours gets bigger.’

  Joss laughed. ‘Well, I hope he gets bigger soon. At the moment I’m flat as a pancake. If I hadn’t seen that scan I might have wondered if he was still there.’

  ‘He isa he, is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. That was a figure of speech. And a dreadfully sexist one at that.’ She smiled. ‘Sister thought it would be a boy, though. She said boys always give more trouble than girls, the way they mean to go on.’

  ‘And t
hat’s not sexist, I suppose?’

  ‘No. That’s observation.’ She was opening the letter David had dropped on the bed. The one with the Hibberds’ colophon.

  ‘It’s from Robert Cassie himself,’ David put in, watching her face. ‘He was enormously intrigued to hear you were going to set it in this house.’

  ‘Three thousand pounds, David! He’s going to pay me three thousand pounds!’ She waved the letter at him. ‘You say that’s not much? It’s a fortune! Lyn! Look at this!’ Her sister had just appeared in the doorway with a tea tray.

  Tom had scrambled after her. He ran across the room and tried to climb up onto the high bed. ‘Mummy carry Tom,’ he announced, wriggling down amongst her books and papers, and bouncing on the duvet.

  ‘You mind your little brother, old son,’ David said. He picked up the child and sat him on his knee. ‘Or sister, though heaven forbid that a girl should be so unprincipled as to threaten to arrive early.’ He laughed as Joss leaned forward to smack him.

  Joss lay back on the pillows after they had all gone downstairs, Robert Cassie’s letter in her hand, and reread it for the tenth time. A contract. An advance against royalties and an option on her next book; her next book when she had hardly started this one!

  Her eyes strayed to the Amstrad which Luke had carried upstairs for her and set up on the table by the window. She had made a lot of progress on the book, her enforced bedrest giving her all the time she needed to get the story down. It was galloping through her brain so quickly she couldn’t keep up with it, the adventures coming thick and fast. Later she would get up and put on her dressing gown and sit at the table in the window watching the dusk creep in across the garden whilst beneath her fingers Richard hid in the newly built haystack beneath a huge summer moon.

  When Luke looked in, half an hour later, she was asleep, the letter still in her hand. He took it gently and read it with a smile then quietly he sat down next to the bed looking at her. Her face, still thin and tired, but rested by sleep, was extraordinarily beautiful, even sexy in the shaded lamp light. He bent forward and kissed her lightly, so as not to wake her.