by Jack Lewis
Tamara remembered that she used to draw all the time. Her bedroom would be littered with pencils worn down to the nubs, and the drawings she was most proud of were nailed to her wall. She’d given one to her dad once, but he gave it a glance then set it aside on his desk. All of a sudden, she’d just stopped drawing, but she couldn’t remember why.
“Come on then,” said Magda. “This isn’t a barn dance. Sit down.”
Time hadn’t been kind to her mother. It had scratched wrinkles into her skin and drawn sharp lines around her squinting eyes. Her forehead was marked purple by a bruise, which she supposed had come from the fall. Her mother had never been a tall woman but the years had seemed to shrink her, as if her spine had worn away and left her an inch shorter. She still had the devious look around her eyes, signs that her intelligence still flickered. Her lips were thin with barely any red showing. They were always set in a sneer, as though she’d had a stroke that had set them in a snarling shape. Tamara didn’t remember ever hearing that had happened to her mother, but then she’d never read her letters, and Uncle Shaun had died years ago.
Larry Tremblane hovered at the door. Although his head almost touched the frame, his body was so thin that Tamara could see the lobby behind him, a wide open space that collected draughts and kept a constant chill in the lower floor of the manor. He wore a shirt buttoned all the way up so that it was tight around his chin, and he kept his hands in his pockets. The only skin he showed was his face, the rest covered beneath tight clothes as if he didn’t want Towneley to taint it.
He reminded her of a teacher at boarding school. Mr. Yates always seemed to be standing exactly where you didn’t want him to. When she and her pal Jeanette snuck out to smoke cigarettes that Jeanette’s brother had smuggled to her, Yates appeared from behind the pavilion, face grinning at the prospect of the punishment he had earned the right to give.
“Will you need me, Ms Towneley?” said Larry.
Magda settled into a chair at the head of the dining table. The chair legs scuffed on the carpet as she pulled herself closer to the table.
“You look like hell, Larry. Go home and rest.”
It was true. His face was as white as old lace, save for the tip of his nose which he wiped with his fingers. Shadows clung underneath his eyes and threatened to spread further, mixing with his white skin and becoming grey.
“All the courses are prepared. The chicken is in the oven on a low heat, and the trifle in in the fridge,” he said.
“Thank you Larry.”
The tall man lingered a few seconds. He spoke.
“Don’t forget your painkillers,” he said, looking at Magda. “Make sure you’re in bed before midnight or you’ll-”
Magda waved a dismissive hand. Her wedding ring was stuck fast on her finger, and it seemed like the metal was so tight that the skin had just grown around it and eventually would swallow it.
“I know, Larry. Go home before you drop.”
“You know how you get when you take them.”
“Come on. Not in front of Tamara and Billy.”
Billy stood uneasily against the wall, and gave a nervous smile to his host. After all his curiosity about her mother and the house, now that he was finally here he seemed uncomfortable with it.
Larry turned his head and looked at her. Tamara thought she recognised him from somewhere, but she couldn’t place it.
“The painkillers send her loopy,” he said. “The doctor gave her too strong a prescription, if you want my opinion.”
“We don’t,” said Magda.
Billy moved away from the wall.
“Want me to drive you back, buddy? It’s no trouble.”
Larry didn’t even turn to look at him, instead fixing his gaze on Tamara.
“Thank you, but no. I’m well enough to drive.”
He stared at her for what seemed like minutes. She felt her own hands drawn to her pockets, as if hiding them would rid the room of the awkwardness. Finally, Larry spoke.
“Stay safe,” he told her.
He turned and walked out of the room. He crossed into the lobby, and then tripped over a bucket filled with umbrellas, tipping them over. He hurriedly picked them up, and there was a clang as he put them back in the bucket. When the front door shut behind him they were alone in Towneley Manor, and a quiet settled over the old house.
“Where’d you find him?” said Tamara.
Magda twisted the dinner plate in front of her until it was perfectly level with her chest. She straightened her knife and fork beside it.
“It took the longest time to get him. Not many people are willing to come up here.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Tamara. “You haven’t exactly brightened up the place.”
“Oh, it’s not that. We’re just too remote. The supermarket won’t even deliver here. Most carers don’t want to be driving back home down Slate Lane in the dead of night. Anyway, Larry is Phillip’s boy. You know, the game hunter?”
She remembered hearing a story when she was little of a poacher who snuck onto Towneley Manor to catch pheasant. Her dad got a call from his panicking wife one night, asking if he’d seen Phillip. ‘Why would I have seen him?’ her dad said. ‘He knows bloody well he shouldn’t be on the estate.’ Days later they found Phillip in his soiled khakis, with his leg stuck in a hole in the ground and snapped at the shin.
Magda pushed her chair out and straightened up. As she moved away from the table it was like watching a bus slowly reversing. She hobbled out of the room and returned minutes later with a silver tray balanced in front of her, and there were three plates on it. Steam rose from a mound of mash potatoes, and thick gravy swished as she crossed the floorboards and stepped onto the carpet.
“You should have let me get that Magda,” said Billy.
“Nonsense. It’s my house, and you’re a guest.”
Tamara noticed how she called Billy a guest, but not her. She hoped it wasn’t because she still considered her daughter to be a part of the family home. Tamara could think of nothing worse than being tossed in with the old place, of growing old as the dust gathered and the floorboards decayed around her.
As they sat around the table, Tamara smelled the rich gravy and realised she had no appetite. Billy held his fork in his right hand and shovelled potatoes into his mouth. So much grace, she thought. Even on their wedding day he’d finished the reception with stains on his shirt.
Tamara looked out of the window and noticed a shape moving in the darkness. It seemed to be pacing back and forward on the grounds, only thirty feet away from the house. Looking closer, she saw that it was a deer. She wondered if it was the same one that had stared at her when they had parked in the woods.
“Do you want some wine, Billy?” said Magda.
Billy looked up. He had mash potato on his lips. Tamara gave him a signal to wipe them. Sometimes, it felt like she was his mother, and she hated slipping into the role.
“Got any whiskey?” said Billy.
Magda poured herself a glass of claret-coloured wine.
“Tamara’s grandfather used to love a whiskey,” she said. “Just like all the other Towneley men. Be careful. He died of liver failure. His face swelled like he’d disturbed a wasp nest, and it was the colour of a banana skin. Don’t let the same happen to you.”
Tamara felt something brush her leg. At first, in a stupid second, she thought it was Billy playing his foot games under the table. She jerked back and saw Magda’s two dogs had snuck into the room. They scurried underneath until they were at Magda’s legs. Magda teared a strip off her chicken breast and fed it to the dogs, smiling as they licked it from her fingers.
“Do you remember Bullseye?” she said. “You used to feed him the nice ham from the fridge. You thought I didn’t know, but your old mum saw everything you did, Tammy.”
“I remember.”
“He was a good dog. Followed you everywhere, didn’t he? Shame your father hit him with his Range Rover. I’ll never forget how he yel
ped.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
Magda settled her hands on the table. She stared across at Tamara. There was a six foot gap between them since the table was so big, but it still felt too close.
“You should have come to your father’s funeral,” said Magda. “He’d be screaming if he knew his Ra Ra didn’t come.”
“I couldn’t make it.”
“You can go see him while you’re here, then. We put him in the crypt with his father and his grandfather, and all the other Towneley men.”
She could think of nothing worse than going into the darkened crypt to look at the casket of a man who had abandoned her. Actually, come to think about it, there probably was something worse. Dredging up old memories and talking about them with Magda. That pretty much rivalled it on the scale of things she had no interest in.
“There’s something I wanted to say,” said Magda.
Here it comes, thought Tamara. ‘I’m sorry I abandoned you. I’m sorry I didn’t ring you. I’m sorry I waited until you were in university before I even bothered to pick up a pen.’ She didn’t want to hear it, and especially not in front of Billy. She was here through some stupid sense of daughterly duty that she supposed was needed when your mum had a fall, but as soon as she knew Magda was okay, she was leaving.
“I was thinking,” said Magda. “There are so many rooms in this old house. So many places to rattle around in. Why don’t you move in for a while? Save yourself rent until you have a nice pile of cash. The manor is so large that you’d barely hear me, let alone see me. Sometimes it’s so big I get lost in it myself, and I get so loopy on my own that I get the fancy that I hear people talking. Maybe it’s the painkillers.”
Billy sat up straighter. He focused his stare at Magda, waiting on her words. Tamara knew what cogs were turning in his head; she saw the pound signs in his eyes, and knew he was imagining having enough money to open the bar.
“You’d really do that?” he said.
“Forget it,” answered Tamara.
“Come on, Tam. Just consider-”
She put her fork down.
“Just leave it.”
Magda smiled. It was a smile all too sweet, as if she enjoyed the bickering she’d created.
“Tell me about yourself, Billy.”
It was one of Billy’s favourite subjects.
“What do you want to know? I was star winger in the uni football team. Captain of the cricket team. I throw a mean Frisbee. I got lucky enough to snag your beautiful daughter.”
“Sweet. What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a temporary mobile phone salesman.”
Magda pushed a piece of chicken into her mouth. She put the fork so far in that it was almost like she was going to swallow it along with the meat.
“Only temporary? The buggers won’t give you a contract? Or can’t you make enough sales?”
“I’m on a permanent contract. It’s me that considers it temporary. I want to open a bar.”
This again, thought Tamara. It didn’t matter where they were or who they were with; Parties, theatre trips, birthdays. Somehow, the subject always got round to Billy and his bar. She’d encouraged him at first, and she genuinely believed it could happen. The thing was that they needed to be careful. They had to make sure they had a nest egg before they went for it.
“A bar, eh? I’m not much a drinker myself.”
“Yeah, right,” said Tamara, and nodded at the almost-empty wine glass in front of Magda.
“Just a tipple, dear. But if you want to open a bar, Billy, you should do it. One thing being cooped up in this old house has taught me is if you have a dream, go for it. Don’t become old and lonely like me. The men in our family have always done their own thing. I don’t think there’s ever been a Towneley who called another man boss.”
She had to stop the conversation. The last thing she needed was Billy getting it into his head that they should move in here. She’d walked down the cold hallways enough when she was younger. She needed somewhere warm and light, not a tomb thick with gloom.
She was about to say something, when her phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and a name lit up the screen. Drake Hosthorpe. She muted the tone.
“Who was that?” said Billy.
“Nobody.”
“It was Drake, wasn’t it? Come on, Tam. What’s wrong with you? You’re going to piss the guy off.”
“I’ll call him back,” said Tamara.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Billy.
Magda wiped gravy from her mouth. Tamara saw where it had stuck to the trace of a moustache on her lip. It seemed like she was beyond caring about her appearance, and her beige blouse sported the pit stains of several wears without a wash.
“You always used to have conversations on the phone with a man named Harold,” Magda said. “Do you remember? Always nattering away with a stern look on your face. I listened in once to make sure nothing was going on, but there was nobody on the end of the line.”
“I don’t remember that,” she said.
There was something there; a flicker in the dark, a faint tapping on the door. Something stirred in her memory, but she couldn’t get to it. Although a whole month of her life was lost to her, other smaller things were, too. There were so many little memories of the house that she’d locked away.
She looked around her. The wood of the dining table was scratched. A feeling of cold emanated from the walls and made her want to wrap up in something warm. Beyond the room, stretching up from the lobby, was a giant stair case. Tamara had counted the steps once; there were ninety-seven, but the total probably reached over two hundred if you counted the weird little spiral cases that her father made, the ones that twisted and turned but led to nowhere but false ceilings. It was a house of crumbling brickwork and jagged edges, paint flaking away from tired walls and wallpaper sliding off and curling into rolls.
“You need to sell the house,” she said. The thought had struck her from nowhere, surfacing from the depths of her mind and gulping air. “You can’t live here alone. Your fall proved that. And I sure as hell don’t want it. You need to go into care, Magda.”
Magda stared at her for a few seconds. The smile dropped as her lips straightened, and then pursed.
“Like hell you’re putting me into a care home,” she said.
The venom in her voice shocked the room into a deeper silence than before. Somewhere out of the room and up into the rafters, the house made a settling noise. Even Billy sat with wide eyes.
Tamara stood up. She walked out of the room and into the lobby, where a grandfather clock stood silent, and the chimes had long since stopped. A fireplace was built into the wall, and tapestry was draped above it. The years had drained some of the colour away, but Tamara still saw the pattern woven into it. It was the Towneley family emblem, a deer with its mouth open and surrounded by wasps.
She walked through into the kitchen. She couldn’t help the prickling feeling on her neck as her footsteps tapped on the floor and disturbed the quiet. The house made its settling noise again, like the creaking of an old ship.
She went into the kitchen to fetch dessert. She wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t want to watch Magda hobbling around again and truth be told, she needed some space. Not just from Magda, but from Billy and the way he stared at her mother with morbid curiosity.
The kitchen walls were covered with stained white tiles. A small table and chairs sat near one wall, and there was a vase of wilting flowers on top. An old antique oven with brass handles gave off some heat. On the kitchen counter was a stack of unopened letters. Tamara couldn’t help thinking back to her own box of letters, and wondered who had been writing to her mother.
Across from her, in an alcove, was a cylinder metal vase, and in it were a bundle of walking sticks. She noticed a carving on the side of one of them. She walked over and turned it to get a better look, and th
e other sticks fell out of the holder and clattered on the floor.
She turned and walked to the fridge. She took the trifle out and balanced it in both hands. Suddenly the hairs on her arms curled up, and she got the sense that something cold was trying to flatten them down again. The temperature dropped enough that she shivered.
She looked over at the window. The woods were outside, a smudge of blackness sitting under a brooding night sky. There was no light for miles around, she knew, and not even the county roads that wound out of Towneley had street lights. It was darkness within and darkness without, and the only illumination came once you were twenty miles away from the estate. Looking closer at the window, she saw something smeared on the glass. It was in the shape of a face, as if someone had been peering in from outside.
