The Unquiet House (19 page)

There weren’t many people, but because they were all wearing the same thing, it looked as if there were more: black crows pecking here and pecking there, peering into corners, tut-tutting over the worn chairs. There were ladies standing in the big room, but no one had chosen to sit in Mr Owens’ seat. Frank didn’t want to sit there either. He looked around for Mossy. His little brother had looked odd when they’d come here, dressed all in black too, his hair turned slick-shiny where his mother had dampened it down.

Someone had been cleaning the place. Frank sniffed. He could smell beeswax and it was a nice smell but he wished he couldn’t; it didn’t seem right, as if the very air had changed now that Mr Owens was gone.

Except that he wasn’t gone. He was in the narrow back room. The funeral was later and now there was this; people bustling in and out doing goodness knows what. It didn’t make any sense to Frank. It was as if the shadows that lay in the house had come to
life and were milling about, rubbing shoulders, holding teacups or plates.

He knew most of them from church or the village. Some were from
away
, as his mum had put it, distant relatives who probably hadn’t been here for years. There was an older woman with bright red lipstick that was garish against her powdered cheeks, and another of a similar age with a similar expression; they stood together, clutching tiny glasses of sherry. There was someone else he didn’t know, a man who stood apart from everybody else, alternately sending dark looks around the room and examining the cornicing through his long pale eyelashes as if he was trying to work out what it cost.

The door opened and Mrs Holroyd came in, ushering Sam and Jeff ahead of her. Sam’s face was pale, his lips tight; Jeff looked as if he were trying not to cry. She pushed them towards the corner where Frank stood, and he heard: ‘You make sure you stay
put
.’ Sam had seen him, was coming over. Frank stood his ground. He wasn’t going to look as if he was afraid. There were worse things: he had seen them.

‘All right,’ said Sam in greeting.

‘Right.’ Frank didn’t say anything else. He was surprised when Sam shuffled awkwardly.

‘
Sorry
.’ The word was barely audible.

He turned and looked the taller boy in the eye. ‘He’s dead.’

Sam wrinkled his nose and turned away. ‘Ah know.’

‘Tha shouldn’t ’ave done it.’

Sam looked angry. ‘It wan’t me. You’re t’ one who went in to t’ ’ouse. Does everythin’ tha’s told, does tha?’

Frank could feel his cheeks growing hot. ‘You …’

‘
That’s
our Frank.’ It was his mother’s voice, raised now, loud in a room full of whispers. He looked up to see her talking to the two women he’d never met, still clutching those silly little glasses as they walked towards him. ‘
That’s
my lad. Frank fetched ’im cake, didn’t you Frank? Just the other week.’ She smiled at him. The strangers nodded and smiled too, as if they didn’t know what to say. Frank looked down at the floor. From the corner of his eye he could see that Sam was watching him.

‘He dun’t boast, our lad. But it were kind, a right kind thing to do.’

He wished, more than anything, that his mother would shut up. Sam, at his side, let out a spurt of air. It seemed the woman with the red lipstick wasn’t really listening either. ‘I never imagined,’ she said under her breath. ‘I knew the house was bad for
me
, but if I thought that Lizzie … so much younger than him, and yet she died so soon.’

The other woman nudged her arm. ‘Look there, Antonia. It seems
someone
likes it.’ She indicated the man, who was now running his hand across the walls and rubbing his fingers together.

‘
Clarence
.’ Antonia looked as if she’d smelled something bad. ‘Well, he
would
, I suppose …’

Frank lost the thread as he felt a hand close on his arm. ‘Why don’t I watch ’im, Mrs Watts?’ He turned and saw Sam’s expression, his eyebrows raised, his eyes wide: all innocence. ‘I can do, if you need to get on.’

She beamed at him. ‘Well, that’s right kind, love. I can see where our Frank gets it from. We ’ave to be getting finished up soon. Gettin’ to the church.’

As they moved away, Sam’s grip tightened. Frank turned and stared down at his hand and Sam let go with an exasperated sound. ‘It weren’t my fault. I weren’t to know you was goin’ to nick summat.’

Frank’s eyes narrowed. ‘You
teld
me ter …’

‘Jump off a cliff, would yer?’

They were silent, staring at each other. After a moment, Sam’s lip curled. ‘Anyroad,’ he said, ‘wha’s this about yer being all pally like?’ He put on a falsetto voice, his head wobbling from side to side: ‘Our Frank fetched ’im cake, didn’t yer Frank? Just t’ other week.’ He leaned in close. ‘Bestest friends, was yer?’

Frank pursed his lips.

‘You’ll ’ave seen ’im, then.’

‘Eh?’

‘You’ll ’ave seen ’im, you bein’ mates an’ all.’ Sam nodded towards the door that led on to the hallway. ‘You know what I’m on about.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Yes you do.’ He leaned in closer so that Frank felt his breath against his ear. ‘Open coffin.
I’ve
seen ’im.’

‘You ’ave
not
.’

‘You ask our Jeff.’ Sam turned and gestured. His mother was standing with the vicar, nodding and talking hurriedly, and Frank noticed Jeff at her side, one hand curled at his mouth; he was sucking his thumb. Frank had known him for as far back as he could remember, but he’d never seen him suck his thumb.

‘He nearly wet ’is pants. Why’d you think ’e were cryin’?’

Frank scowled. ‘Tha’s a git, Sam Holroyd,’ he said.

‘An’ thee’s a coward, Frank Watts.’

The accusation was so unfair that Frank’s mouth fell open.

But Sam hadn’t finished. ‘Tha knows nowt. If you’re such a big man, why dun’t you go and look? You know where ’e is.’ In defiance of his promise to keep an eye on Frank, he stalked off. He went to his brother and whispered in his ear, and Jeff turned and glanced at Frank and his lip twitched.

Frank turned and looked at the door. He suddenly knew he was going to go through it, though he didn’t know why. It wasn’t because of Sam’s words; he didn’t care what he thought of him any more. He was going to look because of something in himself. He had been in this room when no one else was here. He’d talked to the old man when no one had been near him in years. Now it was between him and Mr Owens, it was as simple as that. His feet were already moving, his hand reaching for the door. When he saw the old man – when he looked into his face, saw what he had
done
– he wouldn’t be afraid. He was going to say that he was sorry. Mr Owens had died and Frank couldn’t do anything about it. The man had been away from his house and the memory of his wife and he hadn’t even been able to look at her face when he died because Frank had taken that away from him. The urge to cry was gathering in his chest and his breath hitched. He was in the hall. It was full of other people’s shoes. The tiles, for once, were clean. He turned to the back room and saw that the door was ajar. There was a splash of light on the dark red wall.

He knew he was going to look. He hoped, even after everything, that the old man would somehow understand. He was with the angels now, or wherever; he’d be able to look down and see Frank and know that he hadn’t meant to do the things he’d done. Everything would be all right. He had done something terrible and it would be forgotten. He wouldn’t have to think of
the way the old man had chased him, his face turning red, his fingers clutching at his chest. He wouldn’t have to remember the sounds he’d made as he’d gasped for his last pained breaths on the old concrete bridge. He wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in his eyes. It would all be gone, and everything would begin again.

Frank half expected the door wouldn’t open, but it moved easily under his hand. He listened for any sound from behind him but there was only the continuous drone of voices. The room was narrow and dark and smelled slightly of damp. There was another smell too, something chemical, and layered over that the too-sweet stench of lilies. The flowers were at the back of the room, blowsy white things that were already wilting. They sent spiked shadows across the wall. They were stuck in a tall fluted vase in a nasty shade of turquoise glass. Frank realised he was staring at it because he didn’t want to look at the thing that lay between him and the flowers. He could see it anyway, a dark shape like a long narrow table.

He caught his breath then winced at the sound it made. This had all made sense a minute ago, when he’d crossed the hall. Now it felt wrong. It was as if his feet weren’t resting on the solid floor, as if there wasn’t any air to breathe. He looked down anyway. The coffin was half-open and the part that was open revealed a face and some shoulders and a chest. The colour of the face was wrong, like putty, and he had a sudden image of a smashed egg and the broken thing inside it, of eyes that wouldn’t open.

He felt his legs take a step forward. He had no idea how to stop himself as he walked to Mr Owens’ side and looked down at his face. It had all gone flat somehow. The brows were lined
but they weren’t creased into a scowl and his lips were slack. They didn’t quite seem to meet properly. All of the man’s anger had gone, everything had gone, nothing left inside him. Frank let out a noise. He felt suddenly glad that no one was near, to hear him make that sound. He took a deep breath and looked down at the old man’s hands, folded so neatly over his chest, and his mouth fell open.

There was that smell again, stronger than ever. He could taste it. He felt sick. He put his hand to his mouth. The suit the old man was wearing was brown, and hairy, and tweedy. It looked almost new. He knew at once who would have chosen it. His mother had been over earlier, to help out, she said, and he could picture her tut-tutting over the shiny black thing that Mr Owens wore. She would have found the second-best suit hanging in the wardrobe and held it out in front of her face.
That’ll do
, she’d have said, and that would have been that, they’d have dressed him, making sure they did it all just right.

But it wasn’t just right. There was another funny noise in the room and he realised it was his breath, his throat constricting, the air whistling through it. Then he heard something else, the whispered echo of a sound:
It’ll be t’ suit they carry me off in when I’m done, an’ all
.

Except it wasn’t. It
wasn’t
.

Value in’t just in’t eye o’ the beholder, tha knows. No: this ’ere’s me best, an’ if other folk can’t see that, it’s their problem
.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he almost screamed. He tried to pull away and found he couldn’t. He twisted, barely able to see his mother’s face through the blur of his tears. For a moment it didn’t even look like her and he suppressed the urge to scream a second time. Her mouth was moving and he could smell tea on
her breath but he couldn’t understand a word. He had no idea what he was going to say but anyway he couldn’t speak, because he was crying so hard.

*

The adults in the room gathered around him and the walls loomed over them all, shutting everyone inside. His mother knelt in front of him and Frank knew it was embarrassing, seeing her there like that, but he didn’t care. Behind her was the vicar, seeming taller than ever, his face thin and without expression.

Frank couldn’t think. What was it he had been saying? Something about Mr Owens and his wife, about how the suit was meant for
her
, just as they both had been meant for this place. ‘It was the globe,’ he blurted out, knowing already it was the wrong thing, that he was only making it worse.

He swallowed. ‘Mr Owens saw his wife’s name written on the globe.’ He pointed upwards and his mother glanced at the ceiling. He followed her gaze. There was only an old chandelier hanging from a hook that was thickened with layers of old paint. ‘Outside,’ he said, ‘the globe outside. And that was how he knew he was supposed to stay and he married her and they were going to have children, and that’s why he needs his suit …’

The vicar frowned, shaking his head. Frank’s mother leaned in closer, blocking his view. She didn’t look angry, only full of concern, though he could feel the anger somewhere beneath it.
When she’s afraid
, he thought, and didn’t know why:
She’s most angry when she’s afraid
.

She took hold of his arm, then turned to the vicar. ‘He’s upset,’ she said. ‘He should never ha’ been in that room. He shouldn’t ha’ seen what he saw.’ She started to straighten and Frank pulled
away, but she wouldn’t let him go. ‘I’ll miss t’ funeral,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave it to t’ rest now. I’ll take my boy ’ome.’

Frank noted in some corner of his mind that his mum must also be upset, that she had forgotten to say
have
and
home
, even though she was talking to the vicar. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Mum, no.’

She leaned in, putting her face up close. ‘Now you listen to me, Frank Watts. You’ve shown me up enough and you’re coming ’ome wi’ me, an’ that’s that.’ Her grip tightened and Frank looked at his arm, at her fingers digging into his skin. Somewhere behind her was the blurred outline of a face: Mossy. This time his little brother didn’t manage to hide his fear.

Someone put their hand on his brother’s shoulder and Frank looked up and saw Sam standing behind him. ‘No,’ he said again, though it was no longer the old man he was thinking of: there were more important things.
It was only a suit
, he thought.
Could it really matter?
But the old man had been kind to him. He had let him into his house. He had to try. He ignored his mother’s warning look. ‘It wasn’t the suit ’e wanted, Mum. Tha’ black one – that was ’is. He said it’d be the suit they carried ’im off in.’

‘Aye, well, folk dun’t allus get what they want,’ she said. ‘Now get a move on, our Frank. It looks like you an’ me’s going ’ome.’ And she started to drive him towards the door with little pushes, and he twisted and took another glance at her face, and he did not dare to contradict her.

It wasn’t until they were halfway down the lane that he looked back at Mire House and saw the figure that was standing in one of the topmost windows. He couldn’t see its face but he thought he knew who it was, and he knew that he was looking straight at him.