Chapter 12

Thursday, 14th October

‘I’m putting it all in here.’

George Cooper made an early start this morning. We stop on the threshold of the spare room, the door wedged open with a couple of broken bricks. The builder’s steel-toe-capped boots have tracked brick dust across the discoloured old carpet to a pile of junk stacked in front of the fireplace.

‘I’ll skip the lot if you like, but I thought I’d better check first.’ He grins at me. ‘You never can tell what some folks will keep.’

‘I’ll have a quick rummage through in case there’s anything that should go back to Mrs Havers. It’s all stuff she left behind.’ The builder watches me, raising his eyebrows. ‘The attic was full of her children’s things. Can I let you know?’

‘I’ll be here a while clearing that lot.’ He’s nodding towards the office. A smell of damp plaster seeps through the house. Broken bricks, snapped lathes and debris spread across the office floor.

‘I’ll skip the carpet, shall I? It makes the room smell bad and it’s not worth the trouble to clean it. I doubt that stain beside the hearth will shift anyway.’ He nudges the grey-pink fibres with the toe of his boot. The sourness is here, hiding beneath the smell of the office. I can’t place exactly what it is.

‘That would be great, thanks. I suspect my husband nips in here for a sneaky smoke. He won’t be able to get away with it if the room’s fresh and aired.’

I rattle the brass doorknob, turn it, the catch retracting in and out, the mechanism works fine. ‘Can you do anything with this? The key’s downstairs in my bag, but it opens even when I’ve locked it. The balcony’s unsafe and I don’t want the children getting in here.’

George Cooper tries the lock, runs a thick calloused forefinger along the door edge. ‘I’ll give it a go. The lock’s probably worn; it might need replacing. I can fix a bolt top and bottom, if you like.’ He smiles again, then winks. ‘It’ll keep Shirley happy. She went on and on about a bird getting in the house – it was this room, wasn’t it?’

I laugh.

‘She’s a funny old thing, Shirley, superstition sucks her right in. Don’t you be listening to any such nonsense.’ He smiles and I suspect she’s told her brother-in-law how I feel about Haverscroft. ‘Her heart’s in the right place. Coming over, she reckons.’

He walks off towards the office, pulling up the collar of his donkey jacket. ‘It’s not her day today,’ I say to his retreating back.

‘Oh, our Shirley loves a drama, don’t you know? She said something about it being a good drying day. She intends washing the curtains, on account of the dust.’

He walks into the office closing the door behind him.

I still haven’t spoken to Mark. His mobile was on voicemail this morning when the twins and I tried calling from the high street on the way to school. His clerk said he’d arrived at chambers late yesterday afternoon and had my message about the chimney. He would say I’d called again today. Why hadn’t he been in contact? Has he tried? I pull my mobile from my pocket. No signal. I’ll try calling again when I take Riley out.

This room feels different today. The door wedged open, George Cooper along the landing, fanciful thoughts can’t take root. Stained floral wallpaper is scarred with dirty outlines of old pictures. Furniture dents in the carpet, a paler patch where the bed stood. Sunlight scatters through strands of climbing rose and grimy glass. Like the house, the space feels abandoned. I head for the chaise longue and sit with my sketch pad on my knees. Last night had been okay. The twins snuggled in my bed, Riley a fixture on my feet. The dust hasn’t worsened Tom’s asthma, Sophie didn’t bombard me with questions and my weird behaviour wasn’t mentioned.

I started a sketch last night to stop my mind racing: the park beside our London home, drawn from memory, a hot summer’s day. I begin to fill in the chequered detail on our picnic rug, the intricate criss-cross of coloured woollen fibres. Hammering starts up in the office.

‘Only me!’

Shirley sounds miles away. A few minutes here to gather my thoughts, then I’ll go and make some tea, have a natter, see if we can’t get through a few of the WI cakes with help from George. The pencil is light and lively, my shoulders relax. I’m doing okay. No pills, no strange drawings. Yesterday would have been enough to test anyone’s resolve. Everything came at once, even Stephen, after months of no contact. But I’ll feel easier when I’ve spoken to Mark. Where has he been all this time? Doing what and with whom?

I hold the sketch up, turn it towards the light streaming in from the French windows at my back. Not so bad. I drop it to my lap, the golly’s one eye stares at me from the junk pile. How did you get into the office? Did someone, Mark maybe, put you in there? I bought you in the house the day Riley came, didn’t I? There’s a gap, between Mark kicking you across the drive, to now. How did you get upstairs? It must have been Mark, trying to avert another fight between the twins. Another question to ask my husband.

Light glints on metal, something shiny poking out of the golly’s breast pocket. I kneel down, my fingers fumble, too big and clumsy to release it from such a tight space. At last it comes free. I rest back on my heels and look at a tiny key in the palm of my hand.

The document box is on the hall table waiting for me to take it to the locksmith. George Cooper hadn’t fancied having a go at it when I’d asked him. Why would this key be anything to do with the metal box? Both the golly and the box were in the attic. I jump to my feet and dash downstairs. The kitchen door is shut, Shirley’s radio on. I grab the box and head back to the spare room. It could be a key to anything. I drag the chaise in front of the dressing table, sit down and place the box on the empty table in front of me.

The key fits easily into the lock but doesn’t turn. I wiggle it. It’s almost certainly not the right key for this lock. I take it out, replace it and try again. Attempts to open the box with various keys from the shoebox, with screwdrivers and bits of wire might have damaged the mechanism, it’s probably shot by now. I try again, shake the box. It half turns, a small click. The lid lifts a fraction.

I glance up and see myself in the old triple mirrors. Three of me, my face shining with excitement, blue eyes wide in anticipation. Get a grip, Kate. The box is too light to be the treasure the twins hope for. The lid is stiff to open, the hinge rusting, grinding. The musty mould smell of the attic seeps out. I tease back folded layers of navy velvet, a second box, black cardboard, about two inches deep. I pull it out and lift the lid. Crisp transparent paper crackles as I unwrap a dozen or so watercolours. Botanical studies of wild grasses and flowers, seed heads and rose hips. The wild roses are beautiful, so lifelike I can almost smell their scent. Cramped, neat writing labels the images: a dog rose I recall blooming in the hedges when we first found Haverscroft, a blood-red climber, none are signed. I place the paintings back in their cardboard box. I’ll ask Mrs Havers about them when I visit. They’re so lovely it’s a shame not to frame and display them.

There is also a black hardback book, snug in the box, tricky to prise out. I wedge my fingers between its edge and the metal side, pull the blue ribbon tied around it like a parcel until it comes free. Its spine is broken, the cover and pages loose. I untie the ribbon and leaf through a sketchbook similar to my own, and a journal. Judging by the style of the drawings, this is the same artist who painted the watercolours. Rough studies of plants and grasses, the river, the church and high street. Portraits of long-ago people: a small blond boy, a scruffy white terrier and pages of cramped neat writing about day-to-day events.

I put the journal to one side. Shirley will be thrilled, the twins might be less so. Several bundles of letters remind me of Mrs Havers correspondence, tied with string, twine and ribbon of varying colours. Envelopes are addressed to Mrs H. R. Havers, the letters to Helena. Mrs Havers will know who Helena Havers was. Two brown envelopes are all that’s left in the box, neither is addressed or sealed. I look in the smaller of them. A birth certificate for Frederick Henry Havers, born at Haverscroft to Edward William Havers and Helena Rachel Havers in July 1946. The second document is his parent’s marriage certificate for two years earlier. Is this Edward Havers the same man Mrs Havers married? Families used names multiple times back then. What happened to these people? A trip to Fairfields might get some clarification if Shirley doesn’t know.

The larger envelope has several black and white photos of varying sizes. Portraits of unnamed people whom presumably Mrs Havers will recognise. A group of four sitting on a blanket, a picnic around them on a summer’s day taken, I guess from the style of clothes, in the late 1930s. A man and two women in their twenties and a girl of about Sophie’s age. The girl smiles a beautiful wide smile at the camera. She clasps the golly in front of her, his blank eyes staring, his grin complete. The women smile at the lens. One has a short dark bob, her features familiar. My heart quickens. Maybe she was in one of the photographs in the attic? But I’d sketched this woman before I went up there.

I sit back, look up into the mirror and jolt with horror. Everything has changed. The glass is clear and unblemished. The face staring back, not mine. A woman, her eyes empty and unblinking. Her hair, a similar chin-length bob to mine, but so dark as to be practically black. Smooth with a sharp fringe, it frames her pale face. The face in the photos. And my sketch. I’m sure of it. My heart hammers against my ribs, I’m imagining things, seeing things again. I try to breathe, but the stench in here has worsened. I can’t take my eyes from the woman’s. On the periphery of my vision, I see the dressing table cluttered with all manner of things. A silver-backed hairbrush and comb, a small glass dish with hairpins and rings, bottles and jars of cream. A bottle of perfume. A square green stone and diamond ring. Where have they come from?

Voices scream in my head. I put my hands over my ears, scrunch my eyes tight shut. A man, a woman. Can’t hear what they say. Raised angry exchanges. Am I screaming? I can’t tell. I can’t hear. Their voices get louder and louder, my head might explode with them. I open my eyes, look in the mirror. Foxed and pitted old glass, my own ashen, terrified reflection.

The dressing table vibrates, coming in waves, growing in strength. Bottles and jars rattle, the perfume bottle topples over. The hairbrush and comb, the glass dish, rings, bottles and jars fly across the surface as if a hand swiped them away. They smash with a terrific sound against the fender, glass and mess spill into the hearth and across the carpet. I launch myself away from the dressing table and jump to my feet.

The door to the landing vibrates against the broken bricks, the doorknob rattling. The corridor is gloomy, the green runner filthy. Something is there, not a shadow, a tall column of dark space. The bricks fly, crash against the wall, the door slams shut. Silence. The lock turns, a soft thunking into place. No one was on the landing. No one to turn the key, which is still tucked into the side pocket of my handbag.

I dart towards the door and grab the knob, it’s solid, fixed, locked. I can’t shake the voices from my head. I’m shaking from cold and terror, the doorknob slipping beneath my sweating fingers.

‘Unlock the door, let me out!’

Laughter invades my mind, a cold deep sound full of menace. I cover my ears, I can’t keep it out.

I hammer my fists on the door, kick at its base and scream. My voice doesn’t sound real, my throat rasping.

The door flies open and I fall forwards. He grabs my wrist. My legs bend like rubber beneath me. He has hold of me, Mark stops me falling. George Cooper is here. My husband’s lips are moving, but the silence in my head hisses too loudly to hear him.

They pull me from the room, onto the landing, their arms beneath mine. We reach the top of the stairs as my legs gain some stability. Shirley’s in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at us.

‘Who the hell is Edward?’ says Mark.