House of Echoes

  Joss’s mouth was dry. She wanted to turn and run, but, pinned by his sly gaze, she was suddenly rooted to the spot.

  ‘Did you ever see them?’ she managed to whisper at last.

  He shook his head. ‘Our Nat saw them though.’

  ‘Nat?’ Joss could feel the tightness in her throat increasing.

  ‘My sister. She liked it up here. Mam used to clean for Mrs D and she often brought us to play in the garden while she was working. Nat would play with the boys.’ His face darkened. ‘She thought I was a wimp because I didn’t want to. I thought she was loopy. I wouldn’t stay. I’d go and hide in the kitchen and get under Mam’s feet or if she got cross I’d nip through the hedge and go home. No matter how often she tanned my backside I wouldn’t stay.’

  He looked remarkably cheerful about it now.

  ‘But your sister liked it here?’

  He nodded. ‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she,’ he said cryptically. He reached for a soft cloth and began buffing the huge head lamps.

  ‘You don’t mind working here now, though?’ Joss said thoughtfully.

  He grinned. ‘Na, I don’t believe in that stuff any more.’

  ‘But you think I do?’

  He winked. ‘I heard them talking about you. I didn’t think it was fair. After all, it’s not just you, is it. Loads of people have seen the boys.’

  And the tin man without a heart?

  Joss wiped the palms of her hands across the front of her shirt. ‘Does your sister still live in the village, Jim?’

  He shook his head. ‘She got a job in Cambridge.’

  She felt a sharp pang of disappointment. ‘But she comes back? On visits?’

  He didn’t look too sure. With a shrug he rubbed at an almost invisible speck of rust. ‘Not often.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  He shook his head. ‘When Mam and Dad split up, Mam went to live in Kesgrave.’

  ‘Does your Dad remember this house in my mother’s time?’

  Jim shrugged. ‘I doubt it. He wouldn’t set foot in the place.’ He looked up at her and again she saw the narrow, calculating look. ‘He didn’t want me to take this job.’

  ‘I see.’ She supposed she didn’t need to ask why. Too many local tradesmen had explained with a shudder why they would not want to live here themselves.

  She sighed. ‘Well Jimbo, if you see Luke tell him I was looking for him, OK?’

  ‘OK, Mrs Grant.’ He was smiling. As she turned away she felt rather than saw him straighten up from the lamp and stand watching her as she retraced her steps across the courtyard.

  The French doors in the study were open onto the terrace. Standing just outside on the cool stone she surveyed the rather motley collection of garden furniture they had assembled from the outhouses round the courtyard. There were two Edwardian recliners – a little rotten, but remarkably solid considering their age. Two wicker chairs, chewed by mice, but again just about serviceable, and a couple of decidedly dodgy deck chairs both within days of the ultimate split which would deposit their occupiers unceremoniously onto the ground with total lack of dignity. She smiled involuntarily as she always did when she looked at them. Enough to make the owner of an upmarket garden centre go prematurely grey. To sit at this moment in one of those long, Edwardian recliners, which smelled of damp and age and lichen, even though they had cooked for weeks now on the terrace would be heaven. With a cup of tea. Just for a few minutes. Till the others came back.

  She turned back into the study. She ought to take the opportunity to write, while the house was quiet. She looked guiltily at the pile of neatly printed pages on the desk. It was nearly three weeks since she had touched it. Picking up the last few pages she glanced at them. Richard – the hero of her story, the son of the house whose tale came so easily to her pen that she wondered sometimes if it were being dictated to her – had he been one of the lost boys? Were there generations of boys like George and Sam haunting the attics of the house? She shuddered. Had Richard in real life not survived his adventures to live happily ever after as he was going to in her story, but fallen prey like her brothers to another of the accidents and illnesses which plagued the sons of Belheddon? ‘Please, God, keep Tom and Ned safe.’ Throwing down the pages she went back to the doors. Geoffrey and Elizabeth had appeared on the far side of the lawn. Behind them she could see Joe and Alice with the pram just coming through the gate. They must have all walked across the fields and down to the low red cliffs above the estuary. Mat had appeared now, with Tom Tom sitting on his shoulders, and Lyn beside him and last of all, Luke. They were all laughing and talking and for a moment she felt a wave of utter loneliness, strangely excluded from the group, even though they were of all the people in the world those closest to her.

  She watched as they approached her across the grass.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Luke greeted her with a kiss.

  She nodded. She stooped and lifted Ned from the pram. He was fast asleep, oblivious to the world. Hugging him against her she felt the ache in her breasts, the need to feed him. She glanced at Lyn. ‘Shall we have tea soon?’

  ‘Sure.’ Lyn was relaxed and smiling. Her tee-shirt had slipped off one tanned shoulder; her legs, long and slim, were dusted with sand beneath the frayed, cut-off jeans.

  ‘You all went on the beach?’ she asked.

  Lyn nodded. ‘Mat and I took Tom down to make sand castles. It’s glorious there today.’ She stretched her arms languidly above her head. Joss saw Mat’s eyes go involuntarily to Lyn’s breasts, outlined so clearly under the thin blue tee-shirt. He was looking remarkably cheerful.

  ‘I’ll take Ned up and change him.’ Joss headed for the stairs as the others trooped, talking loudly, towards the kitchen.

  She glanced warily around her bedroom. The sun had moved round slightly and the room was cooler. In her arms the baby had opened his eyes.

  He was gazing up into her face with unwavering concentration. She dropped a kiss on the end of his nose, overwhelmed with love for him. No one. No one was ever even to think of harming him or she would not be answerable for her actions. Sitting down in the low chair by the window, she gazed down at him, overcome with love as he dozed off again, seemingly not ready yet to be fed. Breathing in the heavy scent of mown grass and roses from the climber outside the window she felt herself grow drowsy and as her eyelids became increasingly heavy her arms began to loosen the hold on the baby, almost as if someone was gently taking him from her …

  ‘Joss? Joss, what the hell are you doing?’ Lyn’s shriek brought her back to the present with a jerk of terror. Snatching Ned from her, Lyn had turned on her with the ferocity of a spitting cat. ‘You stupid idiot! You could have killed him! What were you doing?’

  ‘What –?’ Joss stared at her blankly.

  ‘His shawl! You had his shawl over his face.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Joss looked round, confused. ‘He didn’t have a shawl. It was too hot.’

  But it was there, still wrapped round him, covering his head and face and trailing from Lyn’s arms as the baby began to scream.

  ‘Give him to me.’ Joss snatched Ned from her sister. ‘He’s hungry. I was just going to feed him, that’s all. He’s all right. He’s just hungry.’

  She cuddled the baby to her, unbuttoning her shirt. ‘Go and make tea! I’ll be down soon.’

  She watched as Lyn backed away towards the door. Lyn’s face was preoccupied and uneasy as she let herself out onto the landing.

  ‘Silly Aunty Lyn.’ Joss guided Ned’s mouth towards her nipple with her little finger. ‘As if I would hurt you, sweetheart.’ Lowering herself back onto the chair near the window she gazed out at the garden as Ned suckled, relaxing back against the embroidered tapestry cushion which Elizabeth had brought as a housewarming present.

  On the bed, the rose which lay on her pillow wilted in the last rays of the sun as it moved across the window into the western sky and one by one the petals fell, small white patches on the rich colours of th
e crewel-work bed cover.

  24

  The house was very quiet after the departure of the family. As each stifling airless day followed the one before Luke and Joss and Lyn found themselves growing increasingly listless. Even Tom was subdued, missing the posse of adoring grandparents. Each morning after feeding Ned and putting him down to sleep Joss disappeared into the study where, with the French windows opened wide, she would sit in front of the Amstrad, wrestling with Richard and the climax of her story.

  Twice David phoned, the last time before he set off to spend the summer in Greece. ‘Just to see how you are. Is the book going well?’ He did not mention his researches into the house any more and she did not ask.

  Out in the courtyard the Bentley went to be replaced by a 1936 SS and then a Lagonda. In the shadowy coach house, the coolest place in Belheddon save for the cellar, Jimbo and Luke worked early in the morning and late in the afternoon, saving the hot midday for a swim in the sea, sandwich lunch and then a siesta under the trees. During the long evenings Luke and sometimes Jimbo too would work in the garden until dark.

  Lyn, ignoring all warnings about the sun, stretched out on one of the old chairs, firmly plugged into her Walkman, while the children slept in their bedrooms. Twice she had written to Mat. He had not replied.

  At her desk, Joss stared out at her sister and frowned. In spite of the liberal application of sun oil Lyn’s legs were peeling; pink flaky patches appearing through the brown. Lyn was constantly watching her. Ever since that afternoon where she had snatched Ned from Joss’s arms she had the feeling she was being checked on. She shook her head wearily and stretched her arms above her head, easing the cramp from her muscles. Tom and Ned were both growing fast, seemingly thriving in spite of the heat. Were it not for Tom’s nightmares all would have been peaceful. Simon, called in at last at Lyn’s insistence, gave Tom a complete check up and blamed the heat. ‘He’ll settle down once it’s cooler, you’ll see.’ The arrival of two kittens from the Goodyears’ farm, christened with due ceremony by Tom Kit and Kat cheered him up enormously, but did not stop the dreams. If they were dreams. Getting up, night after night to feed Ned, and see to Tom, Joss was growing more and more tired and her tiredness was beginning to show. The book was going badly. The story wouldn’t progress and Lyn was getting on her nerves. Often now, when she picked him up Ned would start to scream. She would hug him and comfort him but as though sensing her exhaustion and her distress he would cry all the harder. And every time he cried Lyn would be there, reaching out for him, trying to take him, looking at her accusingly.

  ‘You see! When I hold him he stops.’ She would croon over the baby and then look up in triumph.

  ‘It’s normal, Joss,’ Simon said gently. ‘Babies often cry when their mums pick them up because they want her milk. It’s frustration and hunger because they can smell it so close. Lyn has nothing Ned wants, so he doesn’t bother.’

  Lyn was not convinced.

  The hot weather broke at last at the beginning of September. Torrential rain hurtled across the gardens, and the roof began to leak. Wearily Joss and Lyn trudged up and down to the attics with buckets and washing up bowls and Tom caught a violent cold. Wiping his nose for the hundredth time as they all huddled in the kitchen Joss had sent him off to play before going out to the door to collect the post. Glancing through the handful of letters she paused, looking at one particular envelope, then she threw the whole pile on the table. ‘Bills,’ she said casually. ‘Bills and more bills.’

  ‘In that case I’m going out to the cars.’ Luke stood up, stuffing the last piece of his toast into his mouth. ‘Like to bring us out some coffee at about eleven? That would be nice.’ He glanced at Lyn and then at Joss. ‘Please?’ he wheedled.

  They both laughed. ‘We’ll toss for it,’ Lyn said. She stood up and began to stack the dishes.

  It was Joss who carried out the two steaming mugs and a pile of home-made cookies later, leaving Lyn with the washing. Her raincoat collar pulled up against the cold wind and streaming rain she ducked into the coach house and put them down on the bench amid a pile of brake drums and shoes and old spanners.

  ‘Where is he, Jimbo?’

  ‘Under the car.’ Jimbo jerked with his thumb towards the chassis blocked up in the middle of the coach house.

  Joss crouched down. ‘Grub’s up!’ She peered down to see Luke lying on his back, groping above his head in the car’s intestines. ‘Great.’ His voice was muffled. ‘Thanks.’ He began to push himself out. As his face appeared, black and grinning from beneath the wing the car with no warning lurched suddenly sideways. ‘Luke!’ Joss’s scream brought Jimbo leaping to her side.

  ‘Watch out. The axle stands are slipping.’ Jimbo’s warning shout as Luke rolled clear was drowned by the crash as the car body slid down onto the ground.

  Luke stood up shakily. ‘Close one!’ He wiped his forehead on the back of his hand.

  ‘Luke. You were nearly killed.’ Joss had gone white.

  ‘Fraid so. Never mind. I wasn’t.’ He turned to Jimbo who was picking up the stands. ‘What happened?’

  Jimbo was ashen. He shook his head. ‘Must have been knocked, I reckon.’

  ‘Knocked?’ Joss looked from one to the other. ‘By me? It must have been me?’ She was distraught. ‘Oh God, I’m so tired these days I can’t see what I’m doing.’

  Luke shook his head. He came and put his arm round her. ‘You weren’t anywhere near the car, Joss. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, love. No harm done. These things happen.’

  ‘Oh, Luke.’ Her knees had begun to shake. ‘It was me! Luke, I could have killed you.’

  ‘Take more than that to kill your husband, my dear.’ Luke grinned. He reached for one of Lyn’s biscuits. ‘Go on. Forget it. I’m OK.’

  The rain clouds had blown themselves out by lunch time and the afternoon was crisp and glorious. Leaves scattered across the lake, and the lily pads slapped playfully on the water. Standing side by side Luke and Joss were silent as they watched a heron take off on the far side of the lake and fly laboriously over the hedge with indignant raucous squawks of complaint. One of the kittens, half hidden in the undergrowth had been stalking it with exaggerated care. As the huge bird lifted above its head the small cat turned and fled towards the house. ‘Are you OK?’ Luke glanced at her sideways. ‘You’re not still worrying about that silly accident with the car are you?’ Joss’s face was pale and strained. There were dark circles under her eyes.

  She gave a wan smile. ‘Not really.’ In her shock at what had happened she still couldn’t believe the fact that she had been nowhere near it when the car began to move. In theory she knew perfectly well that the accident had not been her fault, but deep down inside she wasn’t certain.

  ‘Are you sure?’ He was studying her face. Something was wrong. More than just the tiredness. He turned back to look at the water, screwing up his eyes against the glare from the sun on the dancing ripples. ‘Have you heard from David recently?’ he asked. He kept his voice casual.

  For a moment she didn’t answer. Then she shook her head. ‘Not for ages. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  He rammed his hands into his pockets with a shiver. The autumn wind was growing cold. He had seen the envelope lying in the pile on the kitchen table and he had recognised the writing, just as she must have. It had been bulky and sealed with Sellotape. The stab of rage he had felt when he saw it was irrational and violent. Why hadn’t he thrown the thing on the stove? Why hadn’t he opened it and read it? After all he could guess what was in it: more about the bloody house. At first she had ignored it – left it on the table to be lost in a swirl of newspapers and shopping lists – then at lunch time he saw that it had disappeared. Tear it up, he thought. Please, Joss, tear it up.

  He took a step or two nearer the steep bank, staring down into the water to where goldfish and tench flitted amongst the roots of the lilies, faint shadows in the water – water which was deceptively deep.

 
‘Luke.’ Joss’s voice came from further away now.

  Luke swung round. He frowned. He couldn’t see her. A raft of ripples crossed the water, rocking the floating leaves. Near the far bank a moorhen ran lightly across the lily pads, scarcely rocking them, giving sharp croaks of alarm.

  ‘Joss? Where are you?’

  There was no warning, no sound of steps, just the sudden firm, violent push from two hands squarely planted in the small of his back as with a shout of surprise and fear he felt himself hurtling down the steep bank and into the water. No longer glittering gold, it was brown, sandy, cold and very very deep. His eyes open, he found himself staring round the murky depths of the lake, then, arms flailing he fought his way to the surface, choking, feeling the weed and lily stems clutching at his legs, pulling him back. As his head broke the surface he took great gulps of air, clawing at the leaves around him. ‘Christ Almighty, Joss, what did you do that for?’ He was apoplectic with anger and fright. ‘You could have drowned me!’

  ‘Luke? Luke, what happened?’ Joss was standing a few yards away. Her face was white. ‘Here, catch my hand.’ She stepped gingerly down towards the water and stooped towards him.

  He grabbed her fingers and hauled himself dripping onto the bank. ‘I suppose you think that was funny?’ He glared at her, shaking himself like a dog. ‘For pity’s sake, Joss!’

  ‘I don’t think it was funny at all,’ she retaliated. Then her mouth twitched very slightly at the corners. ‘Oh Luke, but you did look funny, suddenly hurling yourself into the water. What on earth made you do it? Did you slip?’

  ‘Slip? You know bloody well I didn’t slip. You pushed me.’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Her face was a picture of injured innocence. ‘How could you think such a thing?’