(1990) Sweet Heart (31 page)

It was hard to believe it was only four months since they had first seen the house. Since the excitement, the sense of peace, of hope. She could still remember the sensation that something was missing. The stables. Except they weren’t missing any more. They were there, the other side of the mill race where they had always been, smart white stables. The head of a chestnut horse was looking out of one of the looseboxes. Jemma.

She blinked.

It was still there.

She whirled round. Her car was gone. The electrician’s van was gone. The black Triumph was there instead, its roof down, its paintwork gleaming, its chrome shining. She looked up at the house. The window frames had been freshly painted, the brickwork repointed. She turned back to the weir. There were no white tapes, no chunk missing from the bank.

Her blood sifted through her veins like sand through a timer.

She closed her eyes, opened them again. A horse in the stables whinnied. The sand still poured but it was getting noisier and she could hear the faint hissing sound; then she realised it was the roar of the weir, that was all.

Come to the wrong house, she thought. I’ve come to the wrong house, took a wrong turning —

I try to do everything here in a controlled way. If you are getting uncomfortable or frightened, I can bring you back out, quickly. If you were to start regressing on your own, somewhere away from here, and the figure in the mirror took hold then —

Why should it? It’s only something in my memory
.

I don’t know if it is just memory
.

She blinked again. The black Triumph had gone. The stables had gone too. The white tapes were back, and half the bank was missing. The house looked old and tatty and plastic sheeting flapped over the builders’ pile of materials. Two long ladders lay against the side of the house. Ben was barking inside.

She touched the side of the Citroën to steady herself; she was gulping down air as if she had just swum a couple of lengths of a pool underwater, scared, scared because Gibbon had not brought her back out.

You’re OK, fine, came out of the trance naturally. You’re tired now, that’s all, tired and in shock; people often have weird hallucinations when they’re overtired.

She went into the house. Ben came running up and as she bent to pat him she saw something move out of the corner of her eye, something coming down the staircase.

Her head snapped up. The electrician. It was the electrician walking slowly, strangely slowly, his face sheet white, his eyes open in shock; the short, chalky man who was normally so busy, so energetic, was treading his way carefully down the dust sheet, clutching on to the bannister rail like an old man. ‘Was it you?’ he said. ‘Was it you what turned it on?’

‘Pardon?’

He pressed his hand against his mouth. When he removed it, she could see a black mark running across the palm. ‘The power,’ he said. ‘Did you turn the power back on?’

‘I’ve just come in the door.’

‘You in’t been down the cellar?’

‘No.’

‘Some joker ’as. I turned the mains off, din’t I, to rewire your bedroom sockets. Someone’s switched it back on.’ He held out his hand. ‘See the burn.’

‘God! I’ve got some dressings in the kitchen —’

‘S’orl right.’ His eyes darted around.

‘Is it one of the builders who did it?’

‘They ain’t been here today.’ He examined the burn. ‘I dunno what’s going on. I’ve changed all the wirin’ and the fittins.’ He sucked his hand. ‘Let me show you somethin’, Mrs Witney.’ He walked down the passageway a short way and stopped by a wall switch.

‘Take a good look at that.’

There were burn marks on the wall around the switch, and the plastic box had partially melted.

‘It’s the same in all the rooms. The wirin’s melting again. Like last time. I thought it was the lad’s fault before. Got a new lad and I left him to do most of the work. I thought he must have made a bodge-up, but it weren’t him.’

‘I left quite a few lights on over the weekend. I — I was away.’

‘That shouldn’t make no difference, leaving them on.’

He opened the cellar door and she noticed another smell above the coal and damp and mustiness, a faint acrid tang of burnt electricity. He turned on the light and she followed him down on to the damp brick floor and over, past the dark opening in the wall, to the fuse box. Several reels of wire lay beneath it and the large white box had brown scorch marks. There was a low-pitched humming sound.

The electrician gazed around. He went through the dark opening and she waited until he reappeared. The humming sound got louder and echoed around the room.

The electrician tapped the glass on the front of the meter. Inside a flat metal disc was spinning, so fast it was almost a blurr. Above it were several dials like miniature clocks; the hands of one were also rotating fast.

‘See the rate the juice is bein’ used?’ he said. ‘If you had every light and appliance in the house on, and then some, it wouldn’t be using it at a tenth of this rate. And you haven’t got nothing on. Just the fridge, and the timer for your boiler and a clock radio. Going to cost you a fortune on your bill — apart from the danger.’ He reached up and pushed the master switch. There was a click and the cellar was plunged into darkness. He put on a torch. ‘That’s how I left it down ’ere.’

‘Someone switched it on?’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘Are you sure it couldn’t have thrown itself back on?’

The beam of the torch shone on the meter. The disc was slowing down now, the humming turning into a shuffling sound, ‘I dunno what’s goin’ on.’

‘You were going to speak to the Electricity Board. You thought there might be some cables or something, which were affecting —’

‘I been had a look at their grid plans for this area. There ain’t nothing round here.’ He snapped the power on. ‘We need an engineer from the Electricity Board to come down. Beats me. Never come across this before in all the years I been workin’.’

‘What else can it be?’

He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe something to do with water — the lake — but I can’t see what. Don’t make no sense. I think to be safe we oughter switch off the power and leave it off until it’s sorted out.’

‘All the electricity?’

He nodded.

‘I don’t want to do that.’

‘Could go up in flames, this place.’

‘I thought you’d put in modern fuses. Tom said he’d asked you to put in the safest system.’

‘I have. That’s what I put in.’

‘So why’s there a risk of fire?’

‘They’re not tripping. And I dunno why not.’

‘I’ve got to have some power,’

‘You’d be best to stay in a hotel ’till we got it sorted.’

‘I — can’t do that. I need to be here. There must be something you can do.’ She was aware of the desperation in her voice.

‘I dunno what else I can do. I’ve checked everythin’. Rewired it, took it all out, rewired it again.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe you got a ghost.’

The grin dropped away and he looked uneasy, as if he had read something in her face that scared him.

‘I’ll try and get someone down in the next couple of days. Tell ’em it’s an emergency. You’ll have to be vigilant. If you’re goin’ out the house, turn the mains off. Have you got anythin’ in the fridge or freezer what’s going to go off?’

‘Nothing that matters.’

‘I’ll have another try. But I dunno. I really dunno.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. They went up the stairs. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Ta very much.’

She picked up the small pile of post that had been dumped on the table and carried it through to the kitchen. It felt chilly in here. Because the Aga was out, she realised.

A late bluebottle buzzed by her. She filled the kettle and sat down, untied the blue and white scarf from around her neck and pressed the play button on the answering machine.

‘Tom, you old bastard, what’s all this about moving to the country? Got your very smart change-of-address card. Thought I might give you a good hiding at tennis one night this week. Give me a call. It’s Tim — Tim Parker.’

‘Er, good morning. This is Mr West from Fixit DIY, calling Mr Witney. The items you ordered are now in. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to let us know when
would be convenient to deliver?’

‘Darling, it’s me. Please call me. I’m in Edinburgh. My hotel number is 031-556 7277. I’m in Room 420. You can get me in office hours on the same code, 332 2545. I’ll be here until Wednesday.’

She let the tape play on without bothering to write the numbers down, a slight smile on her face. He was sounding increasingly anxious.

‘Mrs Witney, it’s Dr Ross’s secretary here. Dr Ross would like to see you as soon as possible. Would three o’clock tomorrow afternoon be convenient? That’s Wednesday, three o’clock. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll expert you then. Thank you. It’s now twenty past two, Tues —’ The voice stopped abruptly and the light on the machine went off. The power. The electrician must have turned it off again.

Tony Ross had not wasted any time getting the results of the tests. Was that because he had been more worried than he let on? Epilepsy? Or worse? Had he been lying about a brain tumour?

The bluebottle thudded against the window. The post was mostly bills. She tried to think what materials they had ordered from Fixit. Plans; she felt a wave of sadness as she thought about the plans she and Tom had made for the house. For their new life here.

Darling, it’s me, please call me
.

Sod you.

She ripped open the next envelope. It was another form from the General Register Office. Details of her adoptive birth certificate were required. Where was it? In an envelope with her passport, vaccination certificates and other bits and pieces. She had packed it somewhere safe when they moved. Shit. Her mind could not focus. In one of the large cardboard boxes. Which one? She thought for a moment. The attic.

Barbara Jarrett. D. Aug 12th 1953
.

Who were you? Who were you, Barbara Jarrett?

Dear Rock, I love him. Please bring him back. Barbara
.

You?

The kettle was silent; no power, of course, and the Aga was out. She went to the top of the cellar steps.

‘Sorry, I can’t make tea with the power off,’ she called down.

‘Be about ten minutes,’ he shouted.

She climbed the stairs and pushed open the attic door. Just enough light to see by came in from a small window down at the far right end. To the left it became increasingly dark and shadowy. She could make out the water cistern. The holes in the roof had gone, and the light that had leaked in before was now sealed out. Dust tickled her nose and she stifled a sneeze. The ceiling was lower than she remembered and the walls narrower; the room seemed large and at the same time claustrophobic. She was acutely aware of the silence.

The wooden packing cases and large cardboard boxes had been dumped untidily by the removals men near the window, and it took several minutes of heavy work moving them before she found the one she was looking for. ‘PERSONAL BELONGINGS’ was written in marker pen across two sides.

She trod on something soft which made a crunching sound, and looked down. It was a dead mouse, its face partially decomposed. Her stomach churned, and she pushed it with her foot behind the packing cases so Ben would not get it.

The window shook in its frame in a gust, and something rolled down the roof. She ripped the tape off the lid of the box and opened it. The top half was full of old clothes, strange old clothes that carried with them in their plastic bags the smells of the past. They were neatly pressed, folded, with cleaning tickets attached
with safety pins, clothes she had not worn in years put away for — a rainy day? Fancy dress parties? Put away because they were her roots?

She found flared jeans, a miniskirt, a small wooden box full of beads and hippy bells, long white plastic boots, a corduroy cap, a plastic bag full of badges: CND, IMPEACH NIXON! LEGALISE POT! I AM GROOVY!

There was a sound like the scrape of a foot and she stared into the shadows at the far end of the attic, the dark end, with the silhouette of the water tank; but she could not see anything.

She rummaged deeper in the box and found another polythene bag, bound several times with an elastic band which was dried out and broke as she unwound it. She turned the package over, the polythene getting longer, until she could see inside. Letters and cards. One card was bigger than the rest, a valentine with a glum little man on the front holding up an enormous red heart. Inside, in Tom’s handwriting, it said: ‘To my eternal Sweetheart.’

The tears slid down her cheeks and she closed the card and slipped it back into the bag.

Something caught her eye in the shadows. A movement. She stepped back. Something was moving in the shadows.

Then she realised it was herself; she was standing in the light from the window, throwing the shadow.

It happened fast, without warning. A crack like a whip and her right leg plunged through the floor. She fell forwards, smacking her chin on to the hardboard. The floor sagged beneath her as she landed. Her right leg had gone through up to the knee.

She lay still, startled, trying to work out what had happened. She pressed her hands down on the floor and it sagged further; there was another splintering crack.
She was breathing fast, panicking now. She yanked her leg out then without trying to stand up, she slithered across the hardboard towards the door where the floor felt solid, and clambered to her feet. She rubbed her grazed leg; her tights were shredded.

She noticed the smell of perfume, suddenly. The attic reeked of it. Strong, pungent, musky perfume. A cold draught dusted her skin. Downstairs the electrician called out, ‘Mrs Witney? I’m going to put the power back on now.’

A candle burned in a glass holder on the table. They sat by a large unlit inglenook with a grey marble surround like a tombstone. The small restaurant was quiet. Only two other tables were occupied, both by couples who talked in murmured voices.

Charley raised her menu to hide a yawn; tiredness came in waves. Hugh looked less world-weary, less beat-up than usual. He seemed to have made a special effort with his appearance tonight: his hair was brushed, his nails were clean and scrubbed, and his clothes were pressed.