The House of Ashes

by Stuart Neville

  He dropped his gaze and ran his fingertips over the counter’s surface, sweeping away some detritus that only he could see.

  “I never told anyone else about that, and I never will, it’s none of my business. But I thought if you didn’t know, then maybe you should.”

  She searched for a response, anything, but found none. She turned and left the shop.

  11: Esther

  Esther had gratefully accepted Thomas’s offer of another cup of tea, and he’d bought one for himself, but they didn’t finish them. “We should get down the road,” he’d said, and Esther had agreed as butterflies and small birds flittered around inside her.

  He wore a suit. The same one he’d worn the first day he’d approached her in the cafe. She had been trying to hide her tears, weeping behind her hand as she wondered how long the owners would let her sit there without buying anything more than the tea that had gone cold an hour before. He was a big man, tall and broad, with blunt and meaty fingers and dirt under his nails. He had the odour of the farm about him, manure and earth and sweat.

  But he was kind, and Esther had found kindness hard to come by in recent times. He had bought her tea, and a slice of cake, and told her about his farm where he lived with his father and brother. How his mother had died some time ago and they found it terrible hard to manage the house, they could barely boil an egg between them, the place was an awful state, and they needed a housekeeper, but it was desperate hard to find one. And anyway, it was nice talking to her, and maybe he’d see her again, he was in Belfast on business, and he’d be back the next day.

  So was she. And when he came in and found her there, he smiled, showing his yellow teeth. He sat with her again, bought her tea, and a chocolate eclair, and she told him she knew how to sew, and could cook a decent meal, and clean, and could she please be his housekeeper?

  Now they drove in Thomas’s car, Esther noting the road signs as they travelled south-west. Lisburn, where her mother’s family had been from, then on to Moira. Esther had read in a newspaper about the building work on a new motorway that would cut the journey time to Belfast by half, but for now the road seemed wide enough. The car rattled and juddered all around them and seemed to travel at a fierce speed. Even in her father’s expensive car, Esther had never gone so fast, and she felt the bright thrill of adventure.

  Soon they travelled along small country roads, passing tractors and little else. Cattle grazed the fields, and sheep with newborn lambs. Esther couldn’t remember the last time she’d left the city. The world seemed to throb with green life, from the grass in the fields to the budding leaves on the trees that whipped past.

  They didn’t talk much until Thomas turned at a sign for Morganstown, when Esther cleared her throat to signal her intention to speak.

  Thomas turned his head towards her for a moment.

  “Which church do you go to?” she asked.

  “Church of Ireland, in the village. Every Sunday morning.”

  “I was raised Methodist,” Esther said, “but it’s all the same, really, isn’t it?”

  “Well, some people think that,” Thomas said.

  His answer confused her, and she felt her cheeks redden with heat, fearing she had said something wrong. A battle erupted within her: to speak or keep her silence? She chose to be brave.

  “It’s good to go to church,” she said, knowing herself to be a hypocrite. She did not believe, would not believe, not any more. “It’s good to hear the word of the Lord. I’m glad that you’re churchgoers.”

  “Nearly there,” he said, and she turned her attention to the road ahead.

  The car turned onto a single-track lane, a river visible through the hedgerow and down a steep bank to her left. She asked what it was called, but he didn’t answer as they approached a walled entrance with an open gateway on the right. One of the stone pillars bore an engraved name.

  “The Ashes,” Esther said. “Like the trees?”

  Thomas grunted, which she took as a yes.

  They drove through, beneath the branches, onto a short gravel driveway, and she saw the house. A good-size place, neater than she expected, pebble-dash walls, small sash windows, the front door painted green with a single frosted glass pane at the centre.

  “It looks nice,” she said, surprised by the lightness of her own voice.

  “It’s not bad,” he said as the car came to a shuddering halt. The handbrake creaked, and he shut off the engine. The car rocked, relieved of his weight as he climbed out. Esther remained where she was, unsure if he intended to open the passenger door for her. He did not. She watched through the window as he walked around the front of the car and towards the house. He paused, looked back at her, and indicated that she should follow him. She opened the door, climbed out, and reached into the back for her bag. By the time she closed the passenger door and went after him, he had already disappeared inside.

  She paused there, by the car, in front of the house. The smell enveloped her. Of animals and earth, rich and deep and dark, and not entirely unpleasant. Birds called all around, full of spring and mischief. She looked up, saw clouds rolling across a wide blue sky. Turning in a circle, she took it in, the expanse of it all. Then she looked towards the door.

  A warning bell rang in the distant reaches of her mind, but she dismissed it.

  Esther stepped into the hall, her shoes echoing on the stone floor. A stairway in front of her, a sitting room to the right, and what she guessed was the kitchen to the left. A jangle of fear sounded inside her, bright and piercing. The urge rose to turn and flee from this place, and she forced it away, told herself to be grateful for God’s mercy in bringing her here.

  But I don’t believe in God, she thought. Not really.

  Before another thought could follow, Thomas’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “In here,” he called.

  Esther followed the voice into the kitchen and found the three men standing there, in a line, as if presenting themselves to her. Thomas, then the younger brother, George, and the father, Ivan. All in their Sunday suits, like it was a special occasion. Thomas introduced the other two, but no one offered to shake her hand, the other two standing awkwardly straight with their arms by their sides. Big men, all of them, tall and wide. All shoulders and belly, red skinned and hard.

  Thomas took her bag and set it against the wall, near a door with a stout lock, then said, “I suppose you should get started. There’s spuds and beef for a roast in the larder.”

  She remained still for a moment, then moved toward the door with the stout lock.

  “Not that one,” Thomas said, and pointed to another on the far side of the kitchen. “That one there.”

  She crossed to the larder, opened it, and found a sack of potatoes on the floor, a crate with carrots and turnips on a shelf, and a joint of beef resting on a slab of marble to keep it cool. Her hands shook, so she clasped them together. I don’t know what to do, she thought, and fear threatened to become panic. What do I do?

  “Here,” a gentle voice said. She turned her head and saw Ivan next to her. He reached past and dragged the sack of potatoes out of the larder. They gave off the smell of dark soil as they rolled against each other.

  Ivan pointed a thick finger. “There’s a knife in thon drawer, and get the two big bowls out from the sideboard. Put the peelings into one, wash the spuds in the sink, and then put them in water in the other.”

  Of course. Peel them. Everyone knows how to do that. Esther exhaled her relief and set to work.

  An hour later, under Ivan’s guidance, she had peeled and cut a generous batch of potatoes for boiling over the wood stove, seared the beef in a pan, and placed it into the oven to roast. The kitchen hummed like all kitchens should, and the smells fetched up memories of her own home, before her father had left them, when her mother would happily spend a Sunday afternoon preparing food for their small family.

 
Thomas and George had disappeared, she didn’t know where to. Ivan remained, sitting at the table, packing tobacco into a pipe, toying with it, but never lighting it. He watched her with a cool stillness that seemed to crawl beneath her clothing, next to her skin. She fought the urge to brush her fingertips across the back of her neck, to shoo away some imaginary touch.

  When she went back to the larder to fetch the carrots, she noticed a bag of fat, ugly apples, and an idea occurred to her. She searched through the other shelves and found caster sugar, flour and butter wrapped in paper. An idea formed, and a memory of the home economics classes she’d taken at Methody. A smile broke on her mouth. What about eggs? They had chickens, so they were bound to have eggs. There, on the middle shelf, in a wicker basket, still speckled with straw and droppings. Cream? No, but there was a pint and a half of milk. That would do, wouldn’t it? The smile turned to a grin and she felt so light inside that her feet might have floated an inch from the stone floor.

  She turned to Ivan, breathless with joy, and said, “I can do an apple crumble. All the makings are there. And I can do custard to go with it. There’s no cream, but there’s milk, and that’s almost as good.”

  Ivan sat back in his chair with something close to a smile on his lips. “Lovely,” he said. “Aye, that’ll be lovely.”

  Esther couldn’t help but clap her hands and giggle like she was a child again in her mother’s kitchen, allowed to lick the whipped cream from the whisk.

  While the beef roasted and the potatoes boiled, she cored and sliced the apples and worked the flour, sugar and butter together to make the crumble, all ready for the oven. Two hours after entering the house, she carved the beef and drained the potatoes. As the men took their seats, she laid out cutlery for them. It was then that she noticed there were only three chairs at the table. The fourth had been set against the wall, turned in to face the corner.

  “Should I get that chair?” she asked.

  None of them answered.

  “Or maybe I should just take mine later?”

  “Aye,” Ivan said, “just you take yours later.”

  The light feeling inside lost its buoyancy, her feet suddenly heavier on the floor. “Oh,” she said. “That’s all right.”

  She fetched the dinnerware from the sideboard and plated up the beef, potato and carrots, and placed one in front of each of the men. They leaned in, smelled, examined.

  “No gravy?” George asked.

  Esther’s stomach dropped. “Oh . . . I . . . I forgot. I’m sorry.”

  Tears threatened. She inhaled, drawing them back in.

  “Sure, never worry,” Ivan said. He reached out, patted her arm.

  “It’ll be awful dry,” George said.

  “It’ll be grand,” Ivan said, his voice sharper than before. “Won’t it, boys?”

  Thomas and George both said, aye, sure it’ll be grand, lowering their gaze to their plates.

  “Come on, now,” Ivan said, “this girl’s worked awful hard to make this meal, so quit your gurning and eat it up.”

  As Esther retreated back to the stove, she heard the clinking of forks and knives on china. She placed the apple crumble into the oven and set about making the custard.

  Their plates were bare when she lifted them away. She placed a bowl of steaming hot apple crumble in front of each of them and poured custard from a chipped jug. The smell, thick and eggy and sweet, made her stomach grumble.

  “Oh, now,” Thomas said, examining his bowl. “Now, now, now.”

  She left them to eat, listening to their contented huffing and chewing. Some might have thought them ignorant, unmannered, but she felt a warm satisfaction at their pleasure.

  When they’d finished, as she washed the dishes, and Ivan finally lit his pipe, she heard them talk in low voices. What do you think? Will she do? Aye, she can cook all right, and she’ll learn better. And she’s biddable. Aye, she’ll do all right.

  The dishes dried and put away, her calves aching, Esther could focus her mind on only two things: the leftover food, and a warm bed. She cleared her throat to get the men’s attention. Thomas looked irritated at her interruption, but Ivan said, “Yes, love?”

  “I wondered,” she said, “where will I be sleeping?”

  Ivan looked to Thomas, who got to his feet. He walked to the door with the lock and searched his trouser pocket until he retrieved a set of jangling keys. He undid the padlock and beckoned her over. Even though she didn’t want to, even though she again wanted to flee this house, she did as she was told. He held open the door. She saw the dimness inside and took a step back. He took her arm, guided her to the top step.

  She looked down into the weak lamplight.

  She saw the young women and the girl looking back.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  Thomas gave her a nudge and said, “It’s all right, go on down, they’ll look after you.”

  Alarm clamoured inside her like a firehouse bell. “Who are they?” she asked again. “What’s going on?”

  “Just go on down,” Thomas said, and he gave her another push, harder than the last.

  She tripped down three or four steps before she could stop herself, her hand grabbing the crude handrail made of raw wood, splinters biting into her palm. Ignoring the fiery sting, she turned and looked back up to him.

  “I want to go,” she said. “Take me back to Belfast.”

  “Whisht, now,” Thomas said, “don’t be thran, just get down them stairs. The girls’ll look after you.”

  Fear threatened to steal the words from her tongue, the reason from her mind. She held it back, though it pressed hard on her.

  “You don’t have to take me,” she said, “I’ll get a bus.”

  She climbed the few steps up to him, and she was suddenly aware of his size, the breadth of him, the height.

  “Come on, now,” he said, “let’s not be making trouble.”

  Anger rose in her, breaking through the fear.

  “Let me past,” she said, her voice shaking along with every other part of her.

  She tried to push past him, between his body and the wall, but there was too much of him and too little of her. Nothing she could do would move him, like a rock, no, a mountain, a cliff face of a man, and she nothing but a breeze to him.

  Then he pushed her.

  His hand flat on her chest, almost as wide as her torso, and she teetered on the edge of the step, her heels betraying her. Her arms spinning as if she could save herself from falling, as if she could fly if she tried hard enough.

  But she couldn’t save herself. She fell down, down into the pit.

  12: Mary

  I mind the sound she made when she tilted back. That was the worst of it, the cry she let out of her. A desperate sound. I think that’s the sound a soul makes when it goes to hell.

  She landed on her back and slid down a few steps, her head clattering off the wood, then her legs went up and over her, so she was on her front, and she rolled the rest of the way until she landed in a heap at the bottom. I mind the way she landed, her dress was all bunched up, and we could see her underthings. The first thought came into my head was I wanted to fix the dress for her. It wasn’t right to be showing herself like that.

  We all stayed still and quiet for a while, me, the Mummies, and Daddy Tam, all looking at each other. Then Daddy Tam nodded his head, and the Mummies dived off the bed they’d been cuddled up on and went to her, knelt down beside her.

  Says Daddy Tam, Is she all right?

  She’s cut her head, says Mummy Noreen, but she’s all right.

  Look after her, says Daddy Tam, and he went back up the stairs and locked the door behind him. Mummy Noreen telt me to get the jug of water from the corner, and a dress or a nightie, anything, so long as it was clean. They helped her over to her bed, laid her down on it. I found a white dress tha
t didn’t fit me any more and brought it and the water over. Mummy Noreen tore strips off the dress and dipped them in the water, then cleaned the cut on the back of the girl’s head.

  Her eyes were wide, and she kept staring at us, one then the other, then the other. Her mouth opening and closing like she was looking for a word to say but couldn’t get a holt of it. The Mummies clucking and soothing her.

  After a while, she found her words. Says she, What is this? What’s going on here?

  Not a one of us had the heart to tell her.

  Time’s an awful funny thing. The way it stretches and shrinks, gets bigger and smaller, thinner and fatter. How some things seem like the size of the whole wide world when you’re in the middle of them, and all these years later, they feel like nothing at all. And the wee things stay with you and they’re all you really remember.

  I mind Daddy Ivan brought down two big bowls of food. One was full of beef and spuds and the other had sweet things I’d never seen nor tasted before. Mummy Noreen telt me they were apple crumble and custard. I’d never had the like of it in my mouth before. I would’ve ate the whole bowl myself if they’d let me.

  The three of us took into thon food while that poor girl lay on the bed and cried her heart out. I suppose we should’ve felt bad about that, eating like pigs with the spoons Daddy Ivan gave us, with her only just knowing what was happening to her. That’s what I really mind about that night. Not her cowping down the stairs, not her tears, but thon food.

  After it was gone, we all sat quiet for a long time. The only sound was her crying. We found out her name was Esther, and she was from Belfast, but I don’t mind if she said it then or later. She was different from Mummy Joy and Mummy Noreen. She was softer in the way of her, and how she spake. Mummy Joy thought maybe she was a posh girl, from a rich house, not like either of them.