The Unquiet House (30 page)

She moved faster when she saw a dark footprint in the ice at the foot of the path. It was muddy beneath but she didn’t care about that; she was dressed for mud, not like Mrs Hollingworth, not like some fine lady. No,
she
was probably too busy, sitting in state in her fancy drawing room, having tea brought in on a silver platter. She still couldn’t see him though. What on earth was he doing? She thought he’d be hiding in the hedgerow, his golden hair tangled in the twigs. There was another thin trace of a giggle, fainter now, and she wasn’t quite sure she’d really heard it.

Her curiosity was hardening into anger. She didn’t have time to spare to go chasing after other people’s children. Instead of presenting the boy at the door of Mire House she imagined herself dragging him up the driveway by the ear.

She reached the end of the path where everything widened into a spread of frozen reeds which rustled and tapped against each other. The boy was standing on the bridge that crossed the
worst of the soft ground. His hand was on the rail. He didn’t grin at her and he didn’t look triumphant; he just appeared to be waiting. As soon as he saw her, he whirled and was gone, the reeds quivering as he disappeared into them.

Aggie scowled and shouted, ‘Tom! Come out here this minute.’

There was no movement, and silence came back, filling the space as her words faded.

‘Tom?’ She didn’t like the way she sounded now, hesitant and weak. She shouted his name louder but there was still no reply. She couldn’t leave him, not here. It wasn’t safe. She’d never been allowed to play by the river when she was young.

She looked down at the splintery shine of ice on the concrete and then she went after him, her footsteps ringing out on the bridge. She paused. Had she heard Tom’s footsteps when he’d run across? She didn’t think she had.

Now there was laughter coming from the water’s edge and she frowned again. She wasn’t going to call him; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. As she pushed aside the reeds the dry dead stems crackled. Her hands reddened and her cheeks felt pinched. The reeds were all around her and when she turned she could no longer see the clearing. She could smell the water though, a faintly metallic tang. Her next step broke the thin surface of the ice and she sank into it, brown sludge seeping around her boots. Tom only wore shoes, didn’t he? He would be freezing. He would ruin them and Mrs Hollingworth would be furious and it would serve him right.

She listened, but there was still no sound. She scanned the reeds, watching for his breath rising into the air, but she couldn’t see it. She was sinking deeper, so she pulled her foot free with a
squelch. The boy could easily get stuck in here. She couldn’t go back without him. She took another step and the water rose to her ankles. It was
cold
, even through her boots. She pulled away, grasping the reeds as she swayed, then she moved quickly, trying to take each step before the mud could suck her down. She must be almost in the water by now. Her anger was dissipating. What if he
had
got stuck? She opened her mouth to call his name, sure he would answer this time, but as she did she pushed through another thick clump of reeds and saw what lay on the other side.

She had expected that shock of golden hair, but it wasn’t like that. The boy was colourless. His hair barely softened the shape of his skull and his already pale skin was whitened by the frost. Even his eyes had faded. They were wide open and staring. They did not blink. He did not stir and he did not look at her and he didn’t close his eyes.

His eyes
, she thought, closing her own, and then she stumbled away, gagging, clawing at the reeds so that she felt them digging into her palms, as she fought her way back towards solid ground.

*

The child was dead – he had been dead for some time. That was all Aggie could take in. She wasn’t sure what she’d said when she’d raised the alarm but people kept arriving, the constable and the doctor among them, and eventually, Mrs Hollingworth. She wore only a thin coat and she kept clutching at it with her bony fingers. She was flanked by Mrs Appleby – Eddie’s mother – and Aggie’s mum, who both stood quietly and let her talk non-stop, her lipsticked mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. Her eyes were wide and incredulous and she did not blink. Aggie’s discomfort grew as she looked at them. The woman must be wondering how the boy had managed
to get out of the house and up here all alone. She must be blaming herself, thinking of how she should have taken care of him – she should have been with him; done
something
.

A squeal cut through the air, making Aggie think of the curlew’s call and of what it meant; then she realised it wasn’t a bird but a child. It was Arthur. He too had come here alone and he ran towards the marsh, his eyes fixed on what had been found there. His face was pale. Aggie put out a hand as if to stop him and then Mrs Appleby stepped forward and grabbed him around the shoulders. He fought, all the while shouting something. At first it was inarticulate, and then she heard Tom’s name, and then, ‘It was
me
she wanted.
Me
. I told Tom – I told him, but he wouldn’t listen …’ and he started to sob. This time when Mrs Appleby tried to lead him away, he let her. She headed for the path and Aggie saw the boy hadn’t come alone after all. Clarence was there too. She saw the expression on his face and caught her breath. His hands were clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed, and when he saw Arthur coming towards him, he whirled around and he ran.

Aggie’s gaze went to Mrs Hollingworth. She saw that the woman hadn’t looked at her nephew at all; she hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction.

Aggie closed her eyes. She remembered standing on a slope not far from here, amid the crooked stones of the graveyard, and she remembered what she’d said:
You can’t have them
. She had felt as if she was making a choice between Will and Eddie, and no matter how foolish the idea, it felt more than ever that she
had
made a choice. She had been so occupied with doing something for her brother and his friend, those whose fates she couldn’t possibly affect, when instead she should have been
helping the one she could. And now a child was lying dead in the cold, his last breath taken, his eyes seeing nothing in this world any longer. He was miles from his home. He never had a chance to live. He hadn’t even been able to look upon his mother’s face as he passed.

She remembered what he’d said to her:
That ’un what wears black … She dun’t like me. I dun’t think she likes the others, neither
.

Aggie turned to face the graveyard, but it was blocked by the sight of Mrs Hollingworth, still talking and talking. She frowned. At least
she
had sat with Tom when he spoke of his fears in the little cupboard in Mire House. She
had
comforted him, hadn’t she? There was that, at least. She had done her best.

But she had told him that the woman he’d seen didn’t mean him any harm. That he would be
safe
. She’d practically told him to go with her. She closed her eyes and the echoes of voices rang in her ears:

She shivered. She should have told him to
run
. She should have said,
Get as far away from her as you can
. She should have told them all: Arthur, after all, was a relative of the wife who had replaced her. He was right, he must have been the one she had wanted to take to the mire. Now Tom had gone instead.

She closed her eyes. She knew the first Mrs Hollingworth was still there. The dark woman was still reaching out to take what she wanted, to make her will felt from whatever empty place she lived now, and Aggie should have told the boys not to even look at her, not to listen if she called to them, not to let her put her cold hand on their shoulders. Now here was Tom, being carried limp and lifeless from the mire, no need to be frightened any more because it was too late for that. It was too late for anything any longer. And it was
all her fault
.

She thought she heard Mrs Hollingworth say her name and she opened her eyes and her head snapped around, anxious to think of something else, anything else, and she saw that the woman had stopped talking at last; she was standing there, her mouth hanging open as if her words had been cut off mid-flow. She just stared at Aggie, stared at her
guilt
, until Aggie was forced to look away.

That woman
, her mother said, afterwards. Years later Aggie would look back and realise her mother had never named Antonia Hollingworth, not ever again. Even long after Aggie had forgiven her, after she’d come to her once more looking for help and she had agreed to give it and had spent all the free time she could muster showing her how to cook and clean and run the very house that Mrs Hollingworth was coming to detest, she was always
that woman
in her mother’s eyes.

‘She’s got a bloody cheek.’

Aggie shifted in her seat. She was sitting at the big old kitchen table, one hand curled around a cup of tea. She had watched her mother scoop three precious teaspoons full of sugar into it and stir.

‘She might talk lovely, but she’s got nowt good to say. Wanted to know all about it, she did. ’Ow you found ’im, ’ow you knew the boy was there, just as if …’

She tuned out her mother’s voice and took a sip of the scalding liquid.

‘As if she shouldn’t ’ave known ’e were missing ’ersen. Shouldn’t she!’

Aggie nodded dumbly.

‘It weren’t no one else’s business to watch ’im, an’ there she was sayin’ things about other folk …’

Aggie let her talk. She could still see Mrs Hollingworth’s face in her mind, her accusatory expression. Her mother paused and she realised she had asked her something. She blinked.

‘Well, love? ’Ow did you – ’ow
did
you know where ’e was?’

Aggie paused. She did not know how to answer her mother’s question in a way that would stop her from looking at her like that. She only knew that it was all her fault. She remembered her own expression when Mrs Hollingworth had turned on her, the guilt that must have been written across her face. But then it had been replaced by something else. Mrs Hollingworth’s accusatory stare had faded until all there was left was recognition and then fear. And Aggie realised that Mrs Hollingworth
knew
she hadn’t done anything wrong, that all Aggie had done was see something she couldn’t possibly have seen, and there was only one way the woman could have realised that: because she had seen something impossible herself, or
someone
. Someone who was watching her home, and the new wife living in it, watching as she took her place. Aggie hadn’t felt dislike for Mrs Hollingworth then, nor disgust nor anything like it, not any longer; she had felt pity.

The room was silent. Her mother must still be waiting for an answer, one she didn’t have. There was no way she could possibly explain. Aggie looked up but found that her mother wasn’t looking at her after all; she had turned to face the window. Her head was tilted to one side.

‘Mum?’

She didn’t turn and Aggie pushed herself up and went to her. She looked into her mother’s face and saw that her eyes were
staring and yet unfocused, as if she was seeing something she could not believe. She shifted her gaze and saw the telegraph boy from the village. He was standing in the yard. He had walked a few steps onto the cobbles but now he was just standing there, staring down at the envelope he held in his hands. He took a deep breath and started walking again and then he saw them standing at the window and he stopped.

Aggie’s mother’s hand was resting on the side of the sink. It began to shake. An odd sound filled the air and Aggie realised it was coming from her mother. That frightened her more than anything; she had never heard her make such a sound, had never heard
anyone
make a sound like that. The cold had taken hold of her. She hadn’t been aware of it but now it pierced her and chilled her right to the core.

Three sharp raps rang out. Her mother started to bat at the air as if it were some physical thing that was coming: something she could ward away. Aggie couldn’t move – she didn’t need to; she could see it all already. The paper would open and the words would be written –
my painful duty to inform you
– and there would be nothing ever again, her brother would be gone, the rooms would be empty, there would be no noise and no life in them.

She didn’t think she could move but she strode to the door and held out her hand. The boy put the telegram into it and she kept her eyes fixed on him as he touched his cap. He opened his mouth to speak and then he saw her face and instead he turned and walked away, because he could do that; he could leave this all behind.

She stepped into the yard. She knew it was cold but she couldn’t feel it any longer. Her legs felt weak and she stumbled
across the cobbles, stopping only when she reached the gate. She could see the church. Its bells hadn’t rung since war was declared but she felt they were ringing now; there was a clangour in her ears that wouldn’t stop. Her fingers opened and something fell from her hand: the paper. She could barely remember what it was. Everything had happened already; she didn’t need ink on paper to tell her that. She could see it in the eyes of the woman who was walking towards the house, down the lane, her gait uncertain, as if there were no strength in her legs either. Mrs Appleby wasn’t wearing a coat and her hair was escaping her scarf. Eddie’s mother staggered a little as she saw Aggie waiting.

Aggie’s whole body jerked. Tears were coming now, she could feel them. The day was cold and empty and that was all there was. Her brother was gone and so was Eddie. They probably had been all along. She thought how stupid she had been: what a silly little girl to think she could have changed their fate. It had been decided as soon as the woman had reached for them, her touch death, its conduit into the world, spreading from her and the house and the country and the war, come in all its forms to put its cold hand on them all.