The Unquiet House Page 2

  The trees at the opposite end of the garden were still clinging to their leaves, though most had already turned. Branches clacked as they swayed in the breeze. When she walked under them she could see the church, nestled so deeply into the earth it seemed almost sunken, speared into it by the weight of its spire. The grounds sloped upward from the boundary wall and she glanced at the hillside covered in gravestones. She pushed away the memories that rose at the sight of them; another graveyard, pulling up in a slow heavy car, the cloying scent of flowers—

  She took a deep breath. What did it matter if it was so nearby? It wasn’t as if she was going to stay here. She turned her back on the place and made her way to the car, wiping her feet on the verge before getting in. It was no good, the damp earth ingrained in her shoes was already smearing the mat. She started the engine and looked back at the house. It was still beautiful. It still answered something within her, as if it was responding to some question she’d never thought to ask. It was also too big, too expensive, too irrational. She shook her head, trying not to look back once more as she drove away, but she couldn’t help herself. The house was quiet and its windows were dark.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The city was stirring. Emma could hear the murmur of tyres on the road outside, the louder choking of a bus passing at the top of the street. She opened her eyes. Her room was a smooth white box. She’d been woken late by Jackie and Liam, the Irish couple upstairs. Their voices through the ceiling had been fast and raised, like something mechanical gaining speed and slipping into high gear. Their argument had gone on and on.

  She pushed herself up, slotting her legs into the narrow gap between the bed and the wall. The flat was in a narrow red-brick terraced house which had never been meant to be subdivided. Her kitchen had once been a corridor and she shared a landing with Jackie and Liam. She had chosen it because it was close to work and because it had been new – the oven had still been coated in plastic film. The flat had no history, none of the accumulated grime of other people’s lives.

  But the past was always there, waiting to make its presence felt. Emma glanced at the table where she’d placed the letter. It had been sent after Clarence Mitchell’s death by his solicitor. She tried to remember if her father had ever told her one single thing about the man. She thought there might have been something, the hint of some estrangement, but when she tried to recall the details they slipped away from her.

  It struck her now that the letter smelled a little like Mire House, like stale, uncirculated air. It was a single sheet of paper, thin and brittle, folded once. He hadn’t used her first name or even ‘Dear’. Miss Dean was how he’d addressed her, terse and formal, as if she were some spinster in a Jane Austen novel:

  Miss Dean,

  I dare say, if you’re reading this, that everything has gone according to plan. I thought long and hard about what to do, had plenty of opportunity. Some people never see it coming, and all that.

  I don’t really know you. I suppose that gets that out of the way. But I know my grandson, and I don’t believe he would get the most out of the old place. Don’t feel bad. It just isn’t him, not really, and you – well, you’re a mystery. But at least you have a chance to make something of it, a chance that I don’t see in Charles’ future. He’s not meant for it, that’s all: I can’t express it better than that.

  I suppose that’s all that needs to be said. You’ll find her a fine old bird, that’s for certain. I wish you joy of her. Ah, but we can’t know what the future holds, can we? Not for other people. We simply do our best. I never imagined my own future like this, but then we never do, do we? Time is short, and when we begin to see its end, doubly so.

  Enjoy her.

  Mr Clarence W. Mitchell.

  Emma had stared at it, perplexed. It purported to be an explanation and yet it explained nothing; it only raised more questions. I wish you joy of her? She wasn’t sure she liked how that sounded. She scanned it again, though she really needed to shower, dress, get to work. She still couldn’t penetrate its meaning.

  It occurred to her now to wonder if the mysterious Charles had come to her father’s funeral. Weddings, funerals, christenings – the triumvirate that reunited families. She couldn’t remember him – but then, she didn’t remember much, only black suits and veils and brief glimpses of friends and neighbours with pale faces and dark clothes, sitting in pews, their hands resting on unfamiliar hymn books worn out from the press of hundreds of hands before them. She shook her head. There was no way of remembering and she didn’t want to; a new day was beginning, something to fill with routine tasks and cups of tea and minor pleasantries, and then it would be behind her and she would forget all over again.

  She put down the letter and went to the window, pulling back the curtains so hard that the plastic rings rattled against the rail. The fabric was a tasteful grey, the wall white, the view outside drab red brick. In her mind, though, was another window, wide and generous, its curtains dull and fraying from years of use, the view one of silent trees and the merest glimpse of gravestones; a place that was much more quiet and more permanent than this.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It wouldn’t take long, the woman had said, and it felt good to have finally done it. Emma had passed over the keys to her parents’ house and she’d signed a form. The estate agent would take care of everything. It was all right, it was going to happen; the woman had reassured her of that in tones so breezy they would admit of nothing else.

  She had started to pack. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone at work, didn’t really need to. She could reach the office from the house in a little over an hour. They wouldn’t even notice she’d gone until she updated her records for the payroll.

  It didn’t take long before the flat looked as empty and sterile as when she’d moved in. She could hear shouting in the street outside and the rattle of shutters from the corner shop. The television was on low, a soft burble, and as she listened, a tirade began in the flat above: Jackie’s voice, berating or blaming, going on and on.

  She found herself longing for quiet rooms, for grand spaces, for air. And then she remembered what Mire House was actually like: the musty smell, the emptiness, nothing around it except the graveyard, nothing for her at all. And the cold.

  She shook her head. Go now, she thought. Go now, before it’s too late.

  If she stopped to think or to ask anyone’s advice it would all become too much. She already knew what her workmates would say: You’d have to be mad. I wouldn’t take that on. A lass like you …? They’d have her live somewhere she was expected to live, to be the person they expected her to be. Now she’d had a glimpse of something different.

  Mire House wasn’t a choice, not really, not any more. It didn’t make sense but she felt as if she was already living within its walls, inhabiting those spacious rooms. In a little place inside of her, a place that was a little like love, she was there, not as a property owner or a developer, but a custodian. Even in so brief a time it felt that in some way she and Mire House were already connected.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The boxes stacked around the walls didn’t even begin to make the room look full. It was hard to believe it had taken so long to bring them inside. Emma knew that once her furniture arrived from the flat it too would be dwarfed. It didn’t matter. She could choose new things later, once she knew what kind of furniture the house wanted. She’d already brought paintbrushes, rollers, cleaning things, white emulsion and sage green paint.

  Before she began, she went to see her room. As soon as she walked in she knew that she’d made the right choice. She stood there for a moment, just listening to the sound of birdsong outside the window, and then she remembered what was in the cupboard and she frowned. The suit was still hanging inside, in her wardrobe. She stepped towards it but hesitated, remembering who had owned the house and what Clarence Mitchell had done for her. The suit was his, wasn’t it? Perhaps she was being ungrateful, clearing it away. Still, she couldn’t keep it fo
rever, clinging to the memory of someone she hadn’t even known. The house would be the memory, not those things. Perhaps if he’d seen what she was going to do with the place he would have been glad.

  She pushed open the door, remembering the hunched shoulders, the dark fabric, the way the trousers had rubbed shiny where the dead man’s knees would have fitted. It wasn’t there. The rail was empty; there was nothing but an old pipe sitting on the shelf behind it, half full of whitened tobacco.

  She looked down, then smiled at herself. The suit had simply fallen off the hanger and was lying on the dingy carpet, the sleeves folded across the body as if trying to cover itself. That was why she could see the shelf behind it; the pipe must have been there all the time. She reached for it and at once had an image of wrinkled hands closing over the thing, stroking its smooth barrel. The pipe was as polished as a prized antique, smooth as silk. It had been well-used. She could still detect the scent of sweet tobacco, the harsher tang of burning.

  She picked up the suit, the fabric grimy under her fingertips, and as she did a knock rang out. It must be the furniture: perfect timing. She headed for the stairs. This meant she was really staying. It would be her first night in her new home, the beginning of something new at last.

  *

  The young man at the door wasn’t in uniform, clutching a delivery note or a tracking device. He was tall and good-looking and his hair was dark blond and slightly curled and a little too long over his ears. At first he didn’t say anything and then he held out his hand to shake. She looked at it.

  ‘You must be Emma,’ he said.

  She frowned, realising it was too late to cover her surprise, then she put out her hand, already wondering: sales ploy? No doubt he’d go from first-name terms to some rehearsed patter designed to have her sign up for something she didn’t need – but no, he looked almost shy now, sheepish even.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming round. I know it might seem a bit – well, off – but …’ His voice tailed away.

  ‘I’m sorry, but have we met?’

  ‘Oh – lord, yes, we have – well, not for a long time, though; I don’t expect you to recognise me. I’m Charlie.’

  Emma frowned. She was quite sure she’d never seen him before in her life.

  ‘Charles. Clarence Mitchell’s grandson.’

  Her mouth fell open. She had no words; there was only a rush of shock and guilt.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he added, and he grinned at her expression.

  Emma shook her head. He seemed to be enjoying her surprise, though not in any malicious way; he was amused, that was all – and who wouldn’t be? She hadn’t yet spent a single night in her house – in his grandfather’s house – and here he was, on her doorstep. Her cheeks flushed. Why had he come? He had every right to be angry. He would want the place back. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly blocked. He might contest the will; he might even win.

  He shook his head, still smiling at her. ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you, or make you think— Well, you know. I don’t want anything. I just – after the funeral and all, I started wondering about family. It makes you think, doesn’t it? I’d barely remembered I’d got another relative – another strand, so to speak. I was meaning to come down anyway to see some friends, so … well, I thought I’d call in. I can go, if you’re busy.’

  ‘Lord, no,’ said Emma, ‘it’s me who should apologise. You took me by surprise, that’s all. Come in, please. I was about to dig out the kettle anyway. I’m in the drawing room – through there.’ She gestured, then let her hand fall. What was she doing? He must have been here plenty of times. Many more than her.

  If he was offended, he didn’t show it. He thanked her, leading the way into the house, and Emma saw only his straight back and broad shoulders as she followed after him.

  The first thing she saw on entering the room was the old black suit, lying crumpled on top of a bin bag, where she’d thrown it on the floor. Charlie was looking at it too, his eyes a little out of focus, as if he was remembering. She bent and picked up the suit, brushing it down, as if it wasn’t obvious she’d been in the process of throwing it away.

  When she met his eyes, he looked quizzical. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I imagine this must have been your grandfather’s.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not likely. More Savile Row, the old man. That looks like a charity shop reject.’ His head tilted as he took in the shiny material, the patina of age. ‘I’d chuck it, if I were you.’

  She started to nod, then took in his words. If I were you. She threw the suit aside without looking and the bin bag rustled under it, coughing out dust.

  He pulled a face. ‘I know this might seem a bit odd, me calling in like this – but really, I’ve no claim over the place. I wanted to say that up front. Grandfather always did as he wanted and – Well, I didn’t expect anything. I didn’t come here because I wanted to check the place out – I hope you believe that.’ His eyes were clear, his expression earnest.

  Emma took a deep breath. ‘Well, I had no right to expect anything at all – at least you knew him, had something to do with him. I’m afraid I’d rather lost track of that side of the family. And I was still—’ She paused, then finished, ‘I was sorting things out. It took me by surprise.’

  He stepped forward and his hand twitched towards her, then he let it fall. ‘I heard about your parents,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry. I would have come for the funeral, but Grandfather was ill and my dad was so busy – he was ill for a long time, you know, not like—’

  Emma couldn’t help it; her eyes filled with tears and she stepped away from him. She had thought about her family, of course she had, but no one had spoken to her about them in months. It had fallen into the past for everyone but her, and she had buried it deep. Now it was here, a living, breathing thing.

  ‘God, look at me – I only wanted to call in and say hi, get acquainted maybe. Look what I’ve done. Sorry.’

  She blinked back the tears but she felt the blood gathering in her cheeks and her face growing hot. She shook her head. ‘It’s not your fault. It took me by surprise.’ She couldn’t look at him.

  ‘For the second time today, eh?’ His tone was light and she tried to smile, and then both of them jumped when someone banged on the door.

  ‘Oh, God – the furniture.’

  Now he did put out a hand, lightly touched her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you stay here? I’ll see to it.’ And he was gone.

  She heard the sound of the door opening and voices buzzing in the hall, a chirpy, ‘Be right back!’, and Emma stood there staring at the boxes and the paint and wondering how on earth she had come to be here. The way she’d reacted, when he spoke of family – she hadn’t known it could still hit her like that. It made her realise how numb she had been. I didn’t know, she thought. I didn’t know I could still feel this way.

  *

  In the end Charlie had them put the sofa in the middle of the carpet like a piece from a dolls’ house and told them to carry the bed upstairs. She followed them up and opened her mouth to direct them, but Charlie went straight to it, the room she had chosen for herself, waiting only for her nod of confirmation before he held open the door for them. The delivery men were ready to leave and she signed their form and tipped them. Then Charlie reappeared with two steaming mugs in his hand, passed one to her and put his own down on the floor. He perched on the edge of the sofa and she saw again how inadequate it looked. Whatever must he think?

  He looked around. ‘God, this room is amazing.’ His eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Look at that cornicing. It’s so – how old is this place, anyway? It’ll be really dramatic in here when you’re done, I’ll bet.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It was built in the thirties, I think, but it looks much older.’ Grander, she thought. It was a time when people did that – made their homes look mock-Tudor or mock-Victorian or mock-Georgian, as if they were trying to escape into the past; making everything look like something e
lse.

  He picked up his coffee and Emma breathed in the scent of her own as the steam dampened her cheeks. She glanced at the tins of paint in the corner. At least it looked as if she was doing something, as if someone cared about the place at last. He followed her gaze. ‘Ah, that’s perfect,’ he said. ‘That’s for in here, isn’t it, that green? Tell me it is.’

  She smiled her answer as she listened to him talk, drinking her coffee, letting it warm her as she thought of that odd flash of feeling when they’d spoken of her parents. She didn’t know if she was trying to remember or trying to forget but in some way, in the last few minutes, it felt like it was all right for her to do both.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It didn’t occur to Emma until later that the house had come as a surprise to Charlie too. They were still sitting in the drawing room, Emma on the sofa, him now cross-legged on the floor, as if he didn’t want to impose on her by getting too close.

  She blurted out the question, ‘Had you ever seen this place before?’

  ‘Never been here, sadly. My dad was going to bring us once, but it fell through. Grandfather paid for us to go to the States that year instead – not sure why. He was never that generous.’ He paused. ‘Well, not often. He was a driven man, you know. He was self-made and he believed others should be the same. But looking at this place, I can see why he didn’t want us to come. It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it.’ He gave a rueful smile, then added, ‘Actually, I don’t think he’d been here in a long time. My dad had no idea why the old man hung onto it – he said Grandfather did some of his growing up around here and he liked this part of Yorkshire, but then it was like he changed his mind: he bought it, then just abandoned it, let it rot – I’m not sure why he didn’t just sell up, but I didn’t see much of him over the last few years. We used to see him every other weekend, but he could be difficult, you know, and then we moved further away, and – well, not so much after that. I do wonder if that’s why – I mean—’