House of Echoes

by Barbara Erskine

‘Oh, I think it is. Be careful. Don’t hurt Luke.’

  ‘Mat – ’

  ‘No, Joss. Let big brother speak.’ Mat gave his slow, intimate smile. ‘He’s worried sick and not just about David. He says you’re hearing voices, seeing things, scaring yourself witless, and all that is not good, especially when you have a new baby in the house. Thinking there is some kind of a threat to the baby is crazy, Joss. You must get that idea right out of your head. You do see that, don’t you?’

  Joss was silent for a moment. ‘I appreciate your talking to me, Mat,’ she said at last, firmly. ‘But there is nothing wrong with me. You must tell Luke I’m OK. I’m not imagining things, and I’m not letting David wind me up. I promise.’ She glanced at Mat and smiled. ‘And Luke knows that whatever he feels for me, I’m not in love with him. I promise.’

  ‘You’ve no business complaining to Mat about me!’ Joss cornered Luke alone in the coach house. ‘All you are doing is worrying him and your parents absolutely unnecessarily. What on earth were you telling him, anyway?’

  ‘Only that I was worried about you. And I did not complain to him. He had no business speaking to you.’ Luke looked at her wearily. ‘Joss, I don’t think you realise how much strain you are under.’

  ‘I realise perfectly well, thank you. And there is nothing wrong about it. I gave birth only a couple of weeks ago! Ned cries a lot. I am feeding him myself. I am missing a lot of sleep. What is so odd about me feeling strained?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Luke put down the spanner he had in his hands and came towards her, wiping his fingers on the seat of his overalls. ‘Come here, you gorgeous, clever lady and let me give you a kiss.’

  He put his wrists on her shoulders, drawing her towards him, dangling his oily hands behind her head so as not to touch her with his fingers. ‘Don’t take it wrong that I worry, Joss. It’s because I love you so much.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Now, I’ve got some good news for you. This old bus is just about finished. She’ll be off home next week, if all goes well, and I’ve had two new enquiries, one of which is a definite, for full restoration jobs.’

  Joss laughed. ‘That’s brilliant!’

  ‘And what about you? How is the book going? Are you getting any work done at all with both our families encamped in the place?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ She gave him a playful cuff on the side of the head. ‘But I think I’m allowed a few days off while my favourite parents and in-laws are in residence. Plenty of time to write again once they’ve gone.’

  He grinned. ‘The trouble is we might not get them to go away. They love it here so much.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ Walking back to the door she stared out into the yard where Jimbo was industriously polishing two great disembodied head lamps. ‘He’s a godsend, isn’t he.’

  ‘Certainly is. Who knows. Next year I might just look for another one like him.’

  Joss frowned. ‘With all this talk about me, no one has said anything about you looking tired, Luke.’ She reached up and touched his face. He was pale and thin, his eyes reddened from lack of sleep. ‘No one sympathises with the father, do they. It’s tough.’

  ‘Very.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Don’t you worry. I’m playing for all the sympathy I can get from my mummy and daddy right now.’ He laughed. ‘It’s nice having them here.’

  In the yard, as though sensing their eyes upon him Jimbo had turned and looked at them. He raised a hand and Joss waved back. ‘I’d better go and find Tom. No one seems to know who’s looking after him.’

  ‘He’s loving all the attention.’ Luke shook his head fondly. ‘We’ll have trouble when they all go.’ He hesitated. ‘Have you heard when David is leaving?’

  Why – can’t you wait to get rid of him? Joss was about to reply, but she swallowed the comment. David was going anyway. ‘He’s driving up to town this evening. It’s still term time, don’t forget.’

  ‘Well, as long as he doesn’t decide to come down here for the whole summer.’ He softened the words with a smile.

  ‘He won’t.’ She reached out and touched his hand. ‘It’s you I love. Never forget that, Luke.’

  There was no sign of anyone indoors. She hurried through the rooms, calling, but the house was deserted. From the study window she could see Elizabeth and Alice strolling across the lawn. Elizabeth was pushing the pram, an expression of intense concentration on her face while Alice was talking nineteen to the dozen, gesticulating as she walked. Joss smiled fondly and turned away from the window. Tom could be with Mat or with Lyn or Geoffrey or Joe or even David. Someone would be keeping an eye on him. So why was she so uneasy? She knew why. Because they could all so easily be thinking the same thing.

  ‘Tom!’ she whispered his name. Then, ‘Tom!’ louder. Heading for the staircase she ran up into his bedroom. It was deserted and tidy, as was Ned’s. There was no one in her room or Lyn’s or David’s. She stood at the bottom of the attic stairs and stared up. The Grants’ bedrooms were there, and little Tom had plodded up at least twice to find them.

  Slowly she climbed the flight and stood on the landing listening. The attics were very hot; they smelled strongly of rich, dry wood and dust, and they were quite silent.

  ‘Tom?’

  Her voice sounded indecently loud.

  ‘Tom? Are you up here?’

  She went into Elizabeth and Geoffrey’s room. It was strewn with clothes; the small chest of drawers was littered with items of make up and Elizabeth’s strings of beads and Geoffrey’s tie, torn off as soon as possible after the christening guests had left the day before and not replaced. The bed was a low divan – nowhere under it to hide. There was no sign of Tom. He wasn’t in Mat’s room either. She stood in the middle of the floor looking round, listening to the scuffling from behind the far door, the door which led into the empty attics which stretched the rest of the length of the house.

  There were footsteps, the sound of a piece of furniture being moved, a suppressed giggle.

  ‘Tom?’ Why was she whispering?

  ‘Tom?’ She tried a little louder.

  Silence.

  ‘Georgie? Sam?’

  The silence was so intense she could feel someone listening to her, holding their breath. Slowly, almost as though she were sleep walking she moved towards the far door. She put out her hand to the key and turned it. The silence deepened. As she pushed open the door it became something tangible, opaque, heavy with threat.

  ‘Tom!’ This time her shout was loud, high pitched, bordering on panic. ‘Tom, are you there?’

  Pushing the door back against the wall she stepped into the empty room and looked round. The light was shadowy, full of dust motes. A bee, trapped against the glass of the window, buzzed frantically, yearning for the sunlight and flowers of the garden. Another door on the far side of the room stood half open. Beyond it the shadows were thick and warm.

  ‘Tom?’ Her voice was shaking now, the panic heavy in her throat. ‘Tom, where are you darling? Don’t hide.’

  The giggle was quite near this time; a child’s giggle, half stifled, very close. She swung round. ‘Tom?’

  There was no one there. Almost running she dived back into Mat’s bedroom and looked round. ‘Tom!’ This time it was a sob. Retracing her steps at a run she plunged through the first two empty attics to the third and last, the one with an end window overlooking the courtyard. ‘Tom!’ But there was no one there and no answer save the single panicked sound of the bee against the window. Walking slowly back through the empty shadowy rooms she went over to the small window and forced it open, watching the bee soar with sudden palpable joy up into the sunshine. There were tears on her cheeks, she realised, tears pouring down her face. Her throat was tight and her heart thudded unevenly under her ribs. ‘Georgie, is that you? Where are you? Sammy? Is it you?’

  Unsteadily she made her way back through the Grants’ bedroom to the top of the staircase, peering down, trying to see through her tears. ‘Tom? Where are you?’ Sobbing she sat down on the top ste
p as her strength drained from her. She was shaking, exhausted and terribly afraid.

  ‘Joss?’ It was Mat, peering up from the landing. ‘Is that you?’ He took the stairs two at a time. ‘Joss, what is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Tom.’ She was shaking so much she could hardly speak.

  ‘Tom?’ He frowned. ‘What about Tom? He’s down in the kitchen with Lyn.’

  Joss was clasping her knees; raising her head she stared at him. ‘He’s all right?’

  ‘He’s all right, Joss.’ He stared at her, searching her face for a clue to her behaviour. Sitting down on the step next to her he put his arm round her shoulders. ‘What is it, Joss?’

  She shook her head, sniffing. ‘I couldn’t find him – ’

  ‘He’s OK. Honestly.’ He hugged her then he stood up and reached down for her hand. ‘Come on, we’ll go and see him.’

  She looked up at him, pushing her hair out of her eyes, aware suddenly of how she must look. ‘I’m sorry, Mat. I’m so tired – ’

  ‘I know.’ His grin was so like Luke’s it tugged at her heart strings. ‘That’s babies for you, I guess. Not enough sleep.’

  She nodded, climbing wearily to her feet. ‘Don’t say anything. Please.’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’ He raised two parallel fingers to his forehead. ‘On one condition. You have a sleep this afternoon. A proper one, letting us take care of the kids so there is nothing to wake you, nothing to worry you. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’ She let him take her hand and guide her down the stairs, feeling a little foolish as, following him into the kitchen she found a room full of people, noise and laughter and at the centre of all the activity an unconcerned Tom, kneeling up on a kitchen chair drawing with large plastic crayons on a huge sheet of paper.

  ‘There you are, Joss.’ Lyn looked up from the work top where she was chopping onions. Her eyes were streaming. Pushing her hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist she grinned. ‘We couldn’t think where you’d got to.’

  She looked too cheerful, almost frenetic.

  ‘Where’s Luke?’ Joss asked. He was the only one missing from the cheerful gathering.

  ‘He went out to have a word with Jimbo,’ Lyn said turning back to her onions. ‘Then he’s coming in for lunch. Are you going to feed Ned first?’

  Joss nodded. She could see the baby asleep in the pram by the dresser. He seemed able to sleep through any amount of noise at the moment and for that fact she gave a quiet vote of thanks. ‘Sit down, Joss.’ Mat guided her by the shoulders to a chair. ‘I was just telling Joss that she needs to rest,’ he said firmly as she collapsed into it. ‘I think this afternoon the doting grandparents and uncles and godfathers should remove the junior Grants from the premises and allow their mum to have a really good sleep.’

  ‘First-rate idea.’ Geoffrey smiled. ‘You do look washed out, Joss my dear.’

  Washed out, she thought much later as she climbed the stairs to the bedroom. I suppose that’s one word for it. She felt almost sorry for the others. In spite of the heat they felt duty bound she suspected to go for that one last walk before setting off in their various directions. The Grants to Oxford – Mat was spending another couple of days with his parents before setting off back north – David and her parents to London. In some ways she was glad they were going. Having so many people in the house was exhausting; but in other ways she was sorry. While they were there, there were people to keep an eye on the children, people to create noise – critical mass – within a large house, drowning out the other sounds, the sounds that came from the silence.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed she kicked off her sandals and lay back on the pillow. She had drawn the curtains against the sun and the room was shadowy, the heat stifling. She could feel her eyes closing. Relaxing on top of the duvet she could feel some of the aching tension easing out of her bones, the heat and the darkness behind her eyelids like a warm bath of peace. Sleep. That was all she needed to soothe away her fears. Sleep, undisturbed by a crying baby or the restless, hot body of her husband next to her in the bed. Poor Luke. He was out in the coach house with Jimbo working amongst the smells of oil and petrol and the heat of sun-warmed metal.

  The weight on the side of the bed was so slight she barely noticed it. For a moment she lay there, eyes still firmly shut, resisting the lurking flutters of fear, then slowly, reluctantly, she opened them and looked around. Nothing. The room was still. There was nothing near the bed which could have caused the slight frisson of movement in the air, the almost unnoticeable depression of the bedclothes near her feet – nothing beyond the stirring of the bed curtain in a stray breeze from the window. Feeling her mouth dry and uncomfortable she swallowed and closed her eyes again. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to be afraid of. But the moment of relaxation had gone. She could feel the uncomfortable trickle of adrenaline into her system, nothing dramatic, nothing startling, just a premonitory priming of the nerves. ‘No.’ Her whisper was long drawn out, anguished. ‘Please, leave me alone.’

  There was nothing there. No shadow in the corner, no strange half-heard echoes in her head which seemed to come from some unrecognised aural receptor which had nothing to do with her ears, nothing but a shred of instinct which was telling her that all was not well.

  Pushing herself up on her elbow, she could feel a trickle of perspiration running down her face. Her hair was sticky; it needed washing. More than anything, she realised suddenly she would love a long, cold bath, somewhere she could wallow sleepily with the door locked, and the humid heat of the afternoon kept at bay.

  Swinging her feet to the floor she dragged herself off the bed, realising at once that she was still dizzy and aching with exhaustion. Padding on bare feet across the cool boards she headed for the bathroom and putting the plug in the bath turned on the taps – mostly cold – and tipped in a little scented oil. Her face, as she examined it in the mirror was white, damp, and even to herself exhausted. There were dark rings over as well as under her eyes, where the lids were sunken and drawn, and her body, as she peeled off her thin cotton shirt and blouse and underwear was ugly – still swollen, her breasts huge and blue veined, damp with sweat. She scowled at herself, tempted for a moment to veil the mirror with a towel. The idea made her smile as she stooped to turn off the tap and step gingerly into the cool water. The bath was definitely an improvement on the bed. A huge old-fashioned bath with ornate iron legs she smiled to herself every time she climbed into it at the thought that such things were now the height of expensive fashion. Cool, supporting to her back, it felt solid and somehow secure. She lay back until the water lapped around her breasts, her head against the rim, and closed her eyes.

  She wasn’t sure how long she had slept but she woke to find herself shivering. Chilled she sat up with a groan and hauled herself out of the water. She had left her watch on the shelf above the wash basin. Grabbing it she looked at it. Nearly four. The others would be back from their walk soon, and Ned would be wanting a feed. Snatching her cotton robe from behind the door she went back into the bedroom. It was just as before – hot and airless. Pulling back the curtains she stared down into the garden. It was empty.

  Reaching for her hair brush from the dressing table Joss began to brush her hair vigorously, feeling the residual tension from her forehead and the back of her neck receding with every stroke. Throwing it down she was reaching into the drawer for fresh crisp clothes when she glanced up at the mirror and felt her stomach drop. For a split second she didn’t recognise the face before her. Her brain refused to interpret the image. She could see eyes, nose, mouth, like gaping holes in a waxen mask – then, as shock-driven adrenaline flooded through her system, the images regrouped, cleared and she found herself looking at a frightened facsimile of herself – eyes, huge; skin, damp; hair, dishevelled, her bathrobe hanging open to display the heavy breasts, breasts which for a fraction of a second had felt the touch of a cold hand on the hot fevered skin.

  ‘No!’ She shook her head violently.
‘No!’

  Clothes. Quickly. Quickly. Bra. Shirt. Panties. Jeans. A protection. Armour. Outside. She must get outside.

  The kitchen was empty. Throwing open the back door she looked out into the courtyard. ‘Luke?’

  The Bentley had been pulled out of the coach house. It stood gleaming gently in the sunlight, strangely blind without the two huge headlights which still stood on a trestle table just inside the open double door of the coach house.

  ‘Luke!’ She ran across the cobbles and stared in. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘He’s gone out for a walk with the others, Mrs Grant.’ Jimbo appeared suddenly from the shadows. ‘With his Ma and Pa being here and that, he thought he’d take the chance.’

  ‘Of course.’ Joss forced a smile. ‘I should have thought of that.’ She was conscious suddenly of how hard Jimbo was staring at her. The young man’s face had fascinated her when she first saw it. Thin, brown, with strangely sleepy slanted eyes, the planes of the cheeks and brow bones were flattened into Slavic features of startling dramatic cast. She could never see him without picturing him on a pony, a rag tied round his head, a gun brandished in one hand as he galloped over the plain. It had been something of a disappointment when, unable to resist it, she had asked him if he could ride and he had looked at her askance with the unequivocal answer, no way.

  ‘You all right, Mrs Grant?’ The soft local vowels did not fit the hard features. Nor, she had to admit, did the eyes: the strange all-seeing eyes.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She began to turn away.

  ‘You look tired, Mrs Grant.’

  ‘I am.’ She stopped.

  ‘The boys been keeping you awake, have they? I heard them when I stayed at yours with my mum when I was a lad. She says they always come back when there are folk in the house.’

  Joss turned and stared at him. ‘Boys?’ she repeated in a whisper. He wasn’t talking about Tom and Ned.

  ‘All the lost boys.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Like Pe’er Pan. I didn’t like the house. My dad said I might get taken too, but Mam had to caretake here some times for Mrs Duncan before she packed up and went to live in Paris, and I had to come too then.’