Chapter 6

Sunday, 10th October

‘I’ve gone through the shoebox, none of the keys fit,’ I say. Mark grins hearing the frustration in my voice.

‘Let me try a screwdriver,’ he says, opening the garage door. ‘I’ve a small one that might just spring the lock.’

I place the box on the bench beside the Armstrong Siddeley. Mark tries wiggling a couple of screwdrivers in the lock.

‘You knew about the attic, didn’t you? Is that what Mrs Havers’ letter was about?’

Mark rattles a tiny screwdriver in the lock and tugs at the handle on the box lid.

‘There’s all sorts in this garage,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘A bit of wire and some WD40 might shift it.’

‘If you knew about the stuff in the attic, why didn’t you say something?’

He’s trying another screwdriver, bent over the box, all I see is the top of his head, his short dark hair.

‘The surveyor told me about it and emailed some photos across.’ Mark stands, drops the screwdriver onto the bench. ‘It’ll have to be cut open, I think. Bit of a shame, it’s a nice old box.’

He knows I’m not interested in the box right this second so I wait.

‘The plan was to get a skip and a couple of local guys to clear it before we moved in. I didn’t want you freaking out about it. The hassle the surveyor had getting access was absurd. Even then, Mrs Havers had us both sworn to secrecy.’ Mark grins, like Tom when he’s been up to no good. ‘It’s killing the estate agent, not knowing what’s up there.’

I quash my anger. Weekends are precious and a row would ruin the short time we have before he heads off tomorrow morning.

‘Why has she left the room that way? Did something happen to her children?’

Mark shrugs. ‘She’s nuts is all I know. Kids died of measles, all sorts of things back then, didn’t they?’

‘Enough to drive anyone insane, losing their children,’ I say.

‘Hey,’ he says, stepping towards me. ‘This is just why I didn’t say anything.’ I look up into his face. ‘For God’s sake, don’t go in the attic again, Kate. If you fall down those stairs when you’re home alone it won’t be good. At least we know where the knocking’s coming from. I’ll skip the lot when the builders are here to give me a hand. Until then, keep out of the attic.’

My shoulders shake, a shiver creeping through my chest. ‘Someone walked over my grave. It’s damp out here.’ I try to smile, to cover my dread of this house. This last week’s seemed like a lifetime. Mark wraps his arms around me. He’s warm and safe, I wish he was here more often.

‘It’s been a tough few days, what with the move, the weird interview, all the upheaval. It’ll take time for everything to settle down. Let me take the kids to the supermarket, give you a breather. Before we go, though,’ he says taking my hand, ‘have a look at this.’

He pulls me towards the rear of the Armstrong Siddeley and opens the boot.

‘I was keeping it secret until I got it going, but it’ll cheer you up after the Lovett and Lyle episode. See what you think.’

Mark delves into the boot and pulls out a cardboard box. His excited tone suggests he’s found something he thinks I’ll like. He flips back the lid. A record deck nestles amongst white polystyrene beads.

‘Hey!’ I say, leaning closer.

‘I found it in a charity shop one lunchtime. It needs a stylus and a new belt, then it should be good to go. The speakers are in the Audi. Bang and Olufsen. Even your mum’s old vinyl should sound great.’

He lifts the deck from the box. The same model I’d owned years ago. I lift the lid and spin the turntable gently with my forefinger.

‘It needs a bit of a clean.’

‘It’s perfect,’ I say.

Mark lowers the deck back into the polystyrene and puts it on the bench beside the metal box. He’s understood better about Mum since his father died. I’ll never be able to part with her records; like the sofa, they travel with me. I reach up and grab hold of the collar of his wax jacket, he pulls me close, his lips hot on mine. I think things will be okay.

Shrieks and mischievous laughter, running feet, scrunching gravel. We step apart and move towards the front of the garage. First Tom, then Sophie sprint towards us. Tom pulls up beside me and I see from the satisfied grin on his face something’s up.

‘What’s going on?’ I say.

‘He threw that at me! It’s dirty and creepy and he did it on purpose!’ says Sophie, jabbing a finger towards her brother. My son holds the balding golly in one hand. The knees of Tom’s jeans are grey with dust, both hands filthy.

‘Have you been in the attic?’ Mark’s tone is angry.

‘No, no we haven’t, have we Tom?’

‘It was your idea!’ Tom slings the golly towards his sister. Sophie throws up her arms, bats the golly away. It falls limply to the ground, one eye staring up at us.

‘Can’t you keep them under control, Kate?’ says Mark, kicking the golly to one side as he heads off towards the house. ‘It’s not appropriate for them to be around something like that.’

The twins stare up at me, Tom’s mischievous grin and Sophie’s anger, gone.

‘Come on, kids, if you’re coming to the supermarket,’ says Mark as he vanishes around the corner of the building. Sophie glances at me and runs after Mark.

‘Sorry,’ says Tom as he heads after his sister.

 

I like this room. Sunlight streams through the open French windows from the terrace. Maybe it’s the hours spent in here this week, wallpaper stripping, Mrs Cooper’s radio on, the space more familiar than the rest of the house. She says Mrs Havers spent her time here, calls it the morning room. The bedroom with the smelly pink carpet is just above. Once stripped and redecorated, it too will be a bright, airy room.

I put the record deck on the paste table and grab a clean paintbrush, flick dust from the turntable. I plug it in, lift the arm and watch the deck spin. Just a stylus then. Mum’s LPs are in their case in the dining room with the rest of our stuff yet to be unpacked. I’m smiling, I realise.

I cross the room and close the windows. The gardener keeps the long border immaculate, spectacular, Mark says, in June and July, but I can’t remember any of it. I turn back to the room, an hour or so, enough time to finish stripping the old paper. It’s like it’s embedded in the walls. I smile again at the twins’ graffiti, a boy throwing a ball for a small scruffy dog on one wall is Sophie’s, Tom’s stickmen battling aliens on another.

I pick up the stripping knife and start scraping. Mark reckons I’m reading too much into the interview, miscommunication between busy partners, maybe he’s right, he usually is. Does he think I’ve failed, let him down, again? The record deck’s perfect, a replica of what I had before, no bland box of chocolates, or limp forecourt flowers. So why isn’t he here, moving chambers? Has he a reason to be in London? He kept the attic secret, Mrs Havers’ letter, what else?

I bump my forefinger along the slimy edge of the stripping knife, flick gluey shreds to the floor. She’d been attentive to Mark all afternoon, it wasn’t me being paranoid, other guests noticed, side glances at Mark laughing too quickly, too loudly. I wipe the blade between my fingers. I won’t go to a chambers do again, no need for me to be there, wives don’t usually go. It makes no difference I’m a lawyer too. I dig at the wall. Layer upon layer upon layer of old paper. Why insist I go, though? Rub my nose in it? Cassie’s attractive, ash-blond hair, like mine before it darkened after the twins. I could lighten it, grow it again.

I’m staring at a wall of ripped old paper, not moving a muscle. It’s absurd, if anything’s going on with Cassie he wouldn’t have taken me, made it so obvious. His mother would love her, even her name’s just right, Cassandra Lewis-Brown.

Thump thump.

The sound makes me jump.

Thump thump.

It’s coming from above me. I stare at the ceiling, grey strands of cobweb stir in the draught from the hall. Something, someone is in the spare room. I clench the stripping knife. This is unlike the sharp crack and knock from the attic. What then? I hear only my breathing. Had I imagined it?

Thump.

My ears strain for every sound. Silence hisses in the cold air. I wait. The room above here is empty and locked. No one is in the house. No one is upstairs. The hall door is open. I’m glad of my trainers as I tiptoe across piles of shredded and soggy paper and stop on the threshold and listen.

Nothing. My mobile’s on the hall table beside the bowl, next to the box and Bakelite phone where I’d dumped everything in my rush to inspect the record deck. I creep across the tiles to the table and scan the landing and stairs. Not a sound, not even the plink of the radiators. I grab my mobile and dash back to the morning room, slam the door and turn the key. I twist the brass knob, shake it, check the door’s locked.

I could call Mark. No signal. I stand still, listening again for what seems like hours but can only be two, three minutes at most. Nothing more.

I step across to the French windows. One bar of signal, maybe enough to connect? What do I say to Mark? I heard a strange noise? I’m thirty-eight years old. A grown woman, for goodness’ sakes. I push the mobile into the back pocket of my jeans.

Whatever it was isn’t making a sound now. Something isn’t right though, something niggles at the back of my mind. This room is cluttered with decorating paraphernalia, buckets, step ladders and paint tins. Not in here, in the hall. The stuff I dumped on the table, everything’s there, except the golly. I dropped the hideous thing beside the metal box after I waved goodbye to the twins. I’m sure I did. It wasn’t on the table just now. Or was it? I stare at the door to the hall. I can’t go out there again.

I turn back to the room and pick my way through sticky shreds of paper to the fireplace. I hit the power button on Mrs Cooper’s radio, turn up the volume and start scraping the wall.