This House Is Haunted

  Of course, I was uncertain whether or not such a radical transformation of my life was sensible, but now that the offer was there, I believed that a change of circumstances could be just the thing, and met with Mrs. Farnsworth in her office later that morning, tendering my notice, which she accepted with a great deal of irritability on her part, pointing out that I was leaving them high and dry in the middle of the school year and who could she possibly find to tutor the small girls at such short notice? I accepted the blame and rather played on my grief, nefarious creature, in order to avoid further scolding, and finally she could see that my mind would not be changed and reluctantly shook my hand and wished me well for the future. I left St. Elizabeth’s that afternoon torn between feelings of excitement and utter terror.

  By Friday, less than a week since Father and I had made our way towards Knightsbridge in pouring rain, not even a full seven days since Mr. Dickens had entered the speakers’ hall to discover more than a thousand of his loyal readers huddled together, steaming with perspiration, I had closed up our house, dismissed Jessie with a week’s pay in lieu, and was seated on a train to a county I had never visited, to work for a family I had never met in a position I had never held before. To say that this was an eventful and emotional week would be to understate matters considerably. But to suggest that it was any more shocking than what was to come over the weeks that followed would be simply a lie.

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS A SURPRISINGLY sunny day when I left London. The city had contrived to kill my beloved father, but now that it had succeeded in its cruel adventure it was satisfied to be benevolent once again. I felt an antipathy towards the place as I left, an emotion that surprised me, for I had always loved the capital, but as the train pulled out of Liverpool Street Station, the sun pouring through the window and blinding my eyes, I thought it harsh and unfair, an old friend who had turned on me for no good reason and whom I was now happy to see the back of. At that moment I believed that I could lead a contented life and never lay eyes on London again.

  Seated opposite me in the railway carriage was a young man of about my own age and although we had not spoken since boarding the train I allowed myself several surreptitious glances in his direction, for he was rather attractive, and I found that, however hard I tried to look away and focus my attention on the passing fields and farmlands, I kept being drawn back to his face. He reminded me of Arthur Covan, that’s the truth of it. As we pulled into Colchester, I noticed that he grew rather pale and his eyes filled with tears. He closed them for a few moments, perhaps hoping to stem their tide, but when he opened them again a few fell down his cheeks and he used his handkerchief to wipe them away. Catching me looking at him, he ran a hand across his face and I felt a desperate urge to ask him whether he was quite all right, whether he might like to talk for a little while, but whatever hurt was lingering in his heart, whatever trauma was causing him to lose control of his emotions, was not to be shared, and once the train pulled out of the station, he stood up, embarrassed by his display, and moved to a different carriage.

  Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see that the decisions I made that week were impulsive and foolish ones. I was lost in shock, my entire world had fallen apart over the course of seven days, and where I should have taken solace in my work, in my school, in my small girls, and yes, even in the company of the likes of Mrs. Farnsworth and Jessie, I made the hasty decision to uproot myself from everything I had ever known, the streets around Hyde Park where I had played as a child, the Serpentine that still filled me with memories of Bull’s Eye, the twists and turns of the laneways that would lead me from home to the familiarity of my classroom. I was desperate for change, but the curtains of that dark room upstairs that had claimed both my parents’ lives, and the life of my infant sister, might have been opened, the windows might have been flung wide, it might have been aired thoroughly with good, honest London air, it might have been redecorated and made inviting once again, a place to live and not to die. I was leaving all of these things behind and going to a part of the country I had never visited, and to do what? To be a governess to who knew how many children for a family who had not even sent an agent to meet with me before offering me the position. Foolish girl! You might have stayed. You might have lived a life that was happy.

  The sun of London gave way to a cold wind in Stowmarket which blew against the train and made me feel rather unsettled, and by the time we reached Norwich in the early evening that in turn had been exchanged for a thick fog, the kind of pea-souper which reminded me of home, despite the fact that I was doing all I could to put that place out of my mind. As we came closer to Thorpe Station, I pulled the letter I had received the previous morning from my bag and read it thoroughly for perhaps the tenth time.

  Gaudlin Hall,

  24 October 1867

  Dear Miss Caine,

  Your application received with gratitude. Your experience acceptable. You are offered paid employment as Governess, by rates and conditions specified in the Morning Post (21st October number). You are expected on the evening of the 25th, by the five o’clock train. The Gaudlin man, Heckling, will collect you in the carriage. Please do not be tardy.

  Sincerely,

  H. Bennet

  On reading it again, it struck me, as it had on every previous occasion, how curious a letter it was. The phrasing was so hurried, and once again there was no mention of how many children would be under my authority. And who was this “H. Bennet” who omitted the requisite “esq.” after his name? Was he a gentleman at all, or perhaps the head of a diminished household? What was his business? There was nothing to tell me. I sighed and felt a degree of anxiety as the train pulled into the station but determined to be strong, no matter what lay ahead. That, at least, would stand me in good stead in the weeks that followed.

  I descended the train steps and looked around. It was almost impossible to see anything through the murky greyness of the fog but the direction that the other passengers were walking in assured me that the exit might be found if I followed them, and I began to walk even as I heard the doors of the train carriages slamming shut again for the return journey and the signalman’s whistle. Several people were running past me, making haste to board the train before it departed and, perhaps unable to see me through the mist, one collided with me, knocking my case from my hand and letting her own fall at the same time.

  “Excuse me,” she said, not sounding particularly apologetic, but I did not mind too much for it was obvious that she did not want to miss her train. I reached for her suitcase, which had fallen to my left, and handed it across to her, and as I did so I noticed the monogrammed initials, etched red in the dark-brown leather. HB. I stared at them, wondering briefly why those initials meant something to me. At that moment I caught the lady’s eye and it seemed almost as if she knew me, for she stared with an expression of recognition, one that mingled pity with regret, before pulling the case from my hand, shaking her head quickly and disappearing into the fog and the carriage ahead.

  I stood there, surprised by her rudeness, and then remembered why “HB” had seemed so familiar. But it was ridiculous, of course. A coincidence, nothing more. England must be littered with people with those initials.

  Turning round now, I grew rather disoriented. I walked in the direction of what I believed to be the platform exit but as there were no passengers either departing or boarding trains from here, it grew difficult to be sure whether or not I was correct. To my left, the engines of the train returning to London were growing noisier as it prepared to depart; to my right, there was another track and I could hear the sound of a second train approaching. Or was it just behind me? It was hard to know. I turned round and gasped; which way should I walk? There was noise everywhere. I reached a hand out, trying to feel my way along, but nothing was where I expected it to be. The sound of voices began to grow louder around me and now there were people again, pushing past with their suitcases and valises, and how could they see wher
e they were going, I wondered, when I could not even see my own hand stretched out before my face? I had not felt so unsettled since the afternoon in the graveyard, and a panic rose inside me, a sense of great terror and foreboding, and I thought that if I did not march forward with intent, then I would be left on this platform for ever, unable to see or breathe, and that I should live out my days here. And so, taking my heart in my hands, I lifted my right foot and started to press forward once again just as a great whistling noise—the sound of the second train—increased to a violent scream and to my horror I felt a pair of hands on my back, pushing me forward with a sharp thrust, and I stumbled, ready to fall headlong just as a third hand gripped my elbow, pulled me back quickly, and I stumbled over my feet towards a wall where, almost immediately, the fog began to disperse a little and I could make out the man who had dragged me so violently from where I had been standing.

  “Good God, miss,” he said, and I could see his face now; it was kindly and fine-featured; he wore a rather elegant pair of spectacles. “Didn’t you see where you were going?” he asked. “You nearly stepped out in front of a train. You would have been killed.”

  I stared at him in confusion and then looked back towards the place from which he had pulled me and sure enough the second train was screeching to a halt. Had I made another step forward I would have fallen beneath it and been crushed to death. I felt faint at the idea.

  “I didn’t mean to—” I began.

  “Another moment and you would have been under it.”

  “Someone pushed me,” I said, staring directly into his face. “A pair of hands. I felt them.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I was watching you. I could see which way you were going. There wasn’t anyone behind you.”

  “But I felt them,” I insisted. I stared at the platform, swallowed hard and turned back to him. “I felt them!” I repeated.

  “You’ve had a shock, that’s all,” said the man, apparently dismissing this idea, and me as an hysteric. “Can I get you anything for your nerves? I’m a doctor, you see. Some sweet tea perhaps? There’s a little shop over there, it’s nothing much of course but—”

  “I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head and trying to compose myself. He must be right, I decided. If he was watching and there was no one there, then I must have imagined it. It was the fog, that was all. It was playing games with my mind. “I must apologize,” I said finally, trying to laugh the incident away. “I don’t know what came over me. I felt quite dizzy. I couldn’t see anything.”

  “Good job I caught you,” he replied, grinning at me, displaying a very even set of white teeth. “Oh dear,” he added. “That does sound terribly pompous, doesn’t it? Like I’m hoping that you’ll pin a medal for bravery on my lapel.”

  I smiled; I liked him. A ridiculous thought occurred to me. That he would say that I should abandon the idea of Gaudlin altogether and come with him instead. Where? I did not know. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. What was wrong with me that day? First the young man on the train and now this. It was as if I had taken leave of all my morals.

  “Oh, here’s my wife now,” he said after a moment and I turned to see a young, pretty woman approaching us, an expression of concern on her face as her husband explained what had just happened. I tried to smile.

  “You should come home with us,” said Mrs. Toxley, for that was the couple’s name, as she stared at me with honest concern on her face. “You’re really quite pale, you know. You could probably do with a pick-me-up.”

  “You’re very kind,” I said, wondering whether I could do such an unlikely thing, whether it was appropriate or not. Perhaps they would allow me to be governess to their children, if they had any, and I would not have to go to Gaudlin Hall at all. “I’d very much like to, only—”

  “Eliza Caine?”

  A voice from our left made us all turn in surprise. A man was standing there. He was in his early sixties, I should say, roughly dressed with florid features. He did not appear to have shaved in several days and his hat was an inadequate match for his overcoat, making him appear slightly ridiculous. I could smell tobacco on his clothes and whisky his breath. He scratched his face and his fingernails displayed themselves dark and dirty, stained as yellow as his teeth, and he didn’t say another word, waiting for me to reply.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Do I know you?”

  “Heckling,” he replied, prodding his chest with his thumb several times. “Carriage is over here.”

  And with that he turned away in the direction of the aforesaid carriage and I was left with my bags, my saviour and his wife, who both turned to stare at me, a little embarrassed by the scene and the extraordinary rudeness of the man.

  “I’m the new governess,” I explained. “At Gaudlin Hall. He’s been sent to fetch me.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Toxley, looking at her husband, who, I noticed, caught her eye for a moment before looking away. “I see,” she added after a long pause.

  An uncomfortable silence settled over us—at first I thought that I had offended the Toxleys in some way but then I realized that this was impossible, for I had said nothing untoward, I had merely explained who I was—but their warmth and generosity of a moment before had been suddenly replaced by anxiety and discomfort. What odd people, I thought as I retrieved my case, thanked them both and made my way towards the carriage. And they had seemed so affable before!

  As I walked away, however, something made me glance back in their direction and I saw that they were staring at me as if there was something they wanted to say but could not find the words. Mrs. Toxley turned to her husband and muttered something in his ear but he shook his head and looked distinctly uncertain about what was required of him.

  Again, hindsight is a wonderful thing, but I look back now and I think of that moment, I think of Alex and Madge Toxley standing there on the platform at Thorpe Station and I want to scream at them, I want to run and shake them, I want to look them squarely in their faces and say, you knew, you knew even then. Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you speak?

  Why didn’t you warn me?

  Chapter Five

  ICLIMBED INTO THE back of Heckling’s carriage, my suitcase placed securely in the rear, and with a great roar that seemed to build from somewhere deep inside his being, the Gaudlin man urged the horse, Winnie, forward. I felt a strong desire to glance behind once again at the Toxleys—their curious behaviour, coupled with my near accident on the platform, had unsettled me greatly—but resolved to remain calm and resilient. Whatever nerves were attacking me could, I felt, be put down to the fact that I was in an unfamiliar county away from the only city I had ever known, and that it would take time for me to feel comfortable in these new surroundings. I could not allow my mind to play tricks with me. This was the start of a new life; I determined to be optimistic.

  “Is the mist always this thick?” I asked, leaning forward in the carriage in an attempt to make conversation with Heckling, who showed no sign of wanting to make conversation with me. The fog, which had dissipated slightly on the platform during my conversation with the Toxleys, had grown dense again as we began our journey and I wondered how he could see well enough to navigate accurately the roads that would eventually lead us to our destination, a few miles to the west of the Norfolk Broads. “Mr. Heckling?” I said, when he showed no sign of offering a response, and this time I was sure I could make out a certain stiffening in his shoulders. “I asked whether the mist is always this heavy.”

  He turned his head slightly and rotated his jaw in a rather unpleasant fashion, as if he was chewing on something, before shrugging and turning back to the road.

  “Always been this thick, I s’pose,” he offered. “Long as I can remember anyway. Summertime, it’s not so bad. But now, aye.” He considered this and nodded his head. “We make do.”

  “You’re Norfolk born and bred, I expect?” I asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Y
ou must like it here then.”

  “Must I?” he muttered, his voice deep and filled with a mixture of boredom and irritation. “Aye, I expect I must. If you say so, that is.”

  I sighed and sat back in the seat, unwilling to engage with him if he was going to be so cantankerous. Father, in addition to his dislike of Americans, the French and the Italians, had not cared greatly for the people of Norfolk and I knew that Heckling, who was certainly no Barkis and was proving himself entirely unwilling, would have irritated him greatly. During his time at the Norwich museum he had found them suspicious and discourteous, although it was possible that they simply did not care for the idea of a young Londoner arriving in their town to do something that a local boy could perhaps have done just as well. It was a coincidence that we should both spend time working in this county and I wondered whether I might have a chance to visit the museum that he and Mr. Kirby had established together, little more than fifty miles away.