The Unquiet House (21 page)

Aggie looked down at her arms in dismay. Her pale skin was reddened and hatched with lines where the barley had scratched her. She was coming out in a rash too; it would be a wonder if no one thought that she had the measles. The midges were biting and the sun was burning down on the top of her head and as she bent, the heat shifted to her back. The chatter-rattle of the binder filled her mind, though other sounds occasionally crept in beneath it: the low hum of bees, the snorting of the horses, the shouts of her brother Will and her dad, and the steady
thwock-thwock-thwock
of metal on stone beneath it all, coming from the big house.

She turned towards it. From here all she could see was the gentle curve of the field, each heavy ear of barley blending into a smooth stretch of near-whiteness. The line was broken only by the sharp triangle of the church spire and the merest suggestion of a chimney top beyond that, but she knew what stood there; the new house that nestled into the plot between the church and the river.
Soon
, she thought, and smiled:
soon
.

‘Moocher!’ The call rang out and she turned to see Will standing tall on the binder. He pointed. ‘Sheaves!’

She pulled a face. The binder kept missing; a scatter of stalks lay like jackstraws. That was the reason she was here. They needed someone to trail in their wake, getting prickled by cut stems and stray thistles and the long hairs that surrounded the barley, smooth as silk along their length but barbed at the tip so that when one snagged in her cuffs, they worked all the way down her sleeves. It wasn’t fair;
she
would never stop someone from doing what they wanted to do, from becoming what they needed to be. She straightened, smoothing down her shirt. For a fleeting moment she pictured the hallway in the new house, full of people wearing silks and ostrich feathers and holding glasses of champagne while a gramophone played.

Perhaps there would be young men there too. Perhaps some of them might like to dance.

‘Aggie! Stop dithering about!’

She grabbed the spilled barley, pulling it into a thick bundle, the ears brushing her cheek. There was a splash of colour in it, bright red – she knew it wasn’t blood, she had only been scratched, not cut – and she discarded the poppy, cut down along with the rest. She stood and went to gather the sheaves into a stook, leaning them together so that the rain would run off and the wind dry them, though not so steeply that the very next breeze would blow them down. For a second she was surrounded by a float of golden chaff that caught the sunlight and she closed her eyes against it. It was a beautiful day, a rare day. It occurred to her in that moment, standing in the warmth and the clean air, that some of the visitors to the big house might be rich.

She half-smiled, smoothing down her headscarf over her hair. Her mother had curled it so carefully the night before.
Her smile faded as she caught her ear, feeling the flare of pain where her mother had burnt the tip with the tongs she’d heated on the stove.

The binder was settling at last, the arrhythmic rattles becoming a continual chatter, the smooth dry
swish
of the blades neat and clean. The sheaves thrown down ahead of her were all neatly bound. She smiled again, moving after it to build the next stook. The last time she’d glanced across the field they had done so little, and now they were almost finished; only a narrow strip remained. She grimaced at the thought even as Will straightened, grinning, looking towards it.

‘Rabbit pie tonight, Ag!’

She wrinkled her nose at him as her dad went to the lead horse’s head and began the clumsy job of turning them. They were the only ones she knew who hadn’t yet changed to a tractor; her dad ‘didn’t hold’ with them. The arc was wide but Dad did it as expertly as he always had, lining up the binder square against the row. They were facing into the sun and she squinted as the remaining barley became a white blur.

‘Ready,’ her dad said. His voice, gruff and impossible to counter, carried easily.

Will’s grin was wider than ever. From somewhere – she hadn’t even seen him stash it – he’d grabbed a pitchfork. ‘Shan’t be long now,’ he said. And the approach began, the blades spinning in a constant empty whirr, the machinery champing, and then came the sharper, dry sound of cutting. It sounded louder than ever and Aggie wanted to cover her ears. She could see the barley beginning to move along the canvas but it seemed to her that everything was still; the sense of waiting hung in the air like chaff, an unbearable lightness, and then came a dark flash in the
corner of her vision as the first rabbit broke for cover. Will whooped, striding towards it, but it was too quick. It pelted across the rows until only the white flash of its tail remained, and then there was not even that. She smothered her own grin as it reached the safety of the long grass.

But it was only the first. It always went the same way: the field’s small creatures retreating as the binder drew inwards until the very last of the crop was cut. They never did run until it was too late. Some were running now, but Will didn’t give chase. They were small, only visible because of their movement against the brown earth: nothing but shrews and mice.

The binder moved onwards and another rabbit ran. This one headed straight towards them in its panic and Aggie winced. She could already see what would happen. It was written in the curve of her brother’s back as he raised the pitchfork, in his broad shoulders and ready muscles; the concentration on his face. She didn’t watch the rabbit, but she couldn’t look away from her brother as his arm twitched. He struck, the movement fluid and sure. She didn’t look at where the blades landed, but she heard the meaty strike of blood and bone.

She wasn’t sure if the creature had cried out, but she imagined it anyway, a single high squeal that hung in the air, lingering even though the binder was even now spilling unbound sheaves from its innards and its endless rattle went on around them all.

Will pulled the pitchfork from the ground – it took two yanks to get it free – and he bent. When he straightened he swung a small limp thing from his hand, the fur stained and dampened. He turned towards the last of the barley and his face lit up. She knew there must be others, running for cover, but she couldn’t bring herself to watch.

It wasn’t their death – she had seen death before, many times; she had watched her mother catching chickens and wringing their necks, her hands strong and sure, and had done it herself, growing in competence each time. No, it was the fear that troubled her. It was the thought of how their terror must have grown, little by little, as their homes were taken from them. It was the thought of all the things they must feel or imagine in their frozen silence, able only to watch as their death approached.

There were stalks spilled all around her now. She would gather them up and build the sheaves and the stook and then she would be finished. She could go inside and sluice away the seeds and barbs and dust. She could release her curled hair, change her dungarees for smooth stockings and try not to think about the death-squeal of the rabbit as they all sat down for tea, her and Mum and Dad and Will, for
soon
her new life would begin and she’d never have to think about it ever again.

It occurred to her now that if the rabbits had only planned their escape, broken for cover sooner, while everyone was busy, they would have been safe. And yet that just made it worse, more pitiable: the way they had simply hidden, letting their fear grow; the way they had never known when the time had come to run.

Aggie lay back on her bed, letting the tiredness settle about her, the aches intensifying and fading by turns along her spine. She had washed in cold water drawn from the pump but now she felt warm again, the heat of the sun still gathered in her little room over the kitchen. Below, she could hear the clatter of pots and the rattle of pans. Soon the rich smell of her mother’s stew began to rise through the gaps between the floorboards.

She closed her eyes, the hunger growing in her belly. She tried not to think of the rabbit; instead, she pictured the smooth tiled floors of the big house.

Mrs Hollingworth, the lady of the house, had come down from London for a day to oversee the proceedings. She had worn an elegant dress with a matching coat that she hadn’t removed, though the day had been warm. Her hair looked freshly curled and it shone and she had a gold pencil in her hand, though she hadn’t had any paper. Her expression had been a little reserved and Aggie had decided it was a sign of her superiority, her good breeding, that she hadn’t smiled. She was proud at the thought of working for someone like her, someone with such self-possession. Mrs Hollingworth was dark-haired and her complexion was pale, and she had imagined her in the bustle
of London, not that shell of a house which didn’t yet have glass in its windows.
Solemn
was the word that came to mind, followed by
dignified
. Mrs Hollingworth’s mouth had twitched, though, when she smoothed her hand down over her belly. It was as if she was already picturing the house full of children. Even with the pregnancy just visible under her coat she still looked like a lady. But then, she
was
a lady. She had a fine new house being finished around her, and beautiful clothes. What need had she of smiles? And then Aggie thought of washing those clothes, scrubbing those tiles clean, of keeping a house much finer than her mother’s – and of actually being paid to do it – and she grinned even wider.

She would need new shoes, she decided. Her plain brogues had been too loud against the flooring, the dead sound echoing around the hallway and up the stairs. She would need silk stockings, not cotton lisle like her mum’s. And then the rattle of the cart cut into her reverie. It meant her dad had finished his rounds with the milk and eggs and vegetables. Sure enough, she heard his voice in the room below.

She frowned. There was something wrong with his tone. He always sounded gruff, but now his voice was clipped, too, as if he had news he didn’t want to impart. The door banged and Will’s louder voice rang out, and he was hurriedly shushed. She knew that something had happened even before her mother started to call her name.

Later she sat with the plate in front of her, stirring the rich stew with her spoon. Around her, the others chewed. She stared down at the food. She was no longer hungry. She didn’t know what she was supposed to think. No one else seemed to be thinking about it at all; they just went on eating. There were so
many questions tumbling over themselves inside her mind and she didn’t know if she was allowed to ask them. It didn’t seem right, but all she could feel was overwhelming disappointment. She looked around at the small room. She couldn’t remember a time when the kitchen wasn’t full of some kind of noise, her brother’s talk, her mother’s washing or cooking or mending. There was always
something
to be said, but now everything was silent.

Mrs Hollingworth had gone back to London for her lying-in and the time had come and they weren’t sure what had happened, other than that there would be no baby. That was all anyone seemed to know: her dad had heard it from the landlord of The Horseshoe in the village, and he had heard it from the stonemason. No one knew when they might be coming to take up possession of the house.
Or if
, Aggie thought, and pushed the idea away.

She imagined taking cups of sugared tea to the lady as she sat alone in a grand chair. In her mind she stood at her side while she drank it, uttering soothing words. Her imagined self knew exactly what to say. She would be a helpmeet and a comfort; there would be no parties, not for a while, but she could still be there for Mrs Hollingworth. They might even develop a kind of friendship, built through adversity, even though one was a mistress and one a housemaid. Such things could happen where the need was great. She found herself smiling wistfully as her dad said, ‘You’ll not be going, then, Aggie.’

She turned and looked at him. Everyone fell still; no one was eating. ‘Of course I’ll go,’ she said. ‘I’m needed.’

Nothing else was said. Instead everyone returned their attention to their plates and continued to eat.

The harvest was almost over when Aggie heard the strike of metal on stone travelling across the hillside from the big house. She stopped at once. She had been tying a strand of wheat about a sheaf and it slipped from her fingers, but she didn’t care. She stared up into the light, her eyes wide open, and a voice shouted something, but she didn’t hear the words.
Now
, she thought. She’s coming back
now
.

She had almost set off to run in the direction of the house when everything came back; not the stone and cool hallways that had been in her mind but the scratchy stalks and the binder’s rattle and her father’s glare. It didn’t matter, though. The lightness was rising inside her. It was all going to happen, her whole future. It did not matter if she could not yet run to meet it.

*

The little lane seemed longer than it ever had when Aggie finally hurried to see what was happening at the house. The building had been done in a fine old style and it had a look about it as if it had always been there, as if it belonged to some earlier era. It certainly appeared to have been finished some time ago. The windows had been painted, the door boarded over with
forbidding slats that surely would not be there forever. But the sound had meant something, and if work was beginning over again that must surely suggest that the house would be occupied at last. Perhaps some last-minute alteration was being carried out to the mistress’ satisfaction.

When she reached the gates she was disappointed to see that the slats were still in place. No lights shone in the windows; no smoke rose from the chimneys. Then she saw the man standing on the lawn, one foot resting on a ladder that lay uselessly on the ground. He hadn’t seen her either and his head was tilted back, as if he too was examining the building.

The silence stretched out while she looked at him, as if it were spreading from the dark building. He slowly turned his head and for a moment, he stared back at her. He started and touched a hand to his cap and bent to his ladder, only pausing when she called out a ‘hallo’. He wore dark overalls, not too dissimilar to her own, save that hers were covered in chaff and his in pale dust.