The thirteenth tale (18 page)

‘I told you so!“

Both children turned and launched themselves into a dash—then
jolted to a halt when they saw me. Two blond fringes flopped down over pairs of
identically shaped brown eyes. Two mouths fell into the same expression of
surprise. Not twins, no, but so close. I stooped to pick up the wrapper and
held it out toward them. The girl, willing to take it, went to step forward.
Her brother, more cautious, stuck his arm out to bar her way and called, “Mum!”

The fair-haired woman watching from the postbox had seen what
had happened. “All right, Tom. Let her take it.” The girl took the paper from
my hand without looking at me. “Say thank you,” the mother called. The children
did so in restrained voices, then turned their backs from me and leaped
thankfully away. This time the woman lifted her daughter up to reach the bin,
and in doing so looked at me again, eyeing my camera with veiled curiosity.

Angelfield was not a place where I could be invisible.

She offered a reserved smile. “Enjoy your walk,” she said, and
then she turned to follow her children, who were already running back along the
street toward the cottages.

I watched them go.

The children ran, swooping and diving around each other, as
though attached by an invisible cord. They switched direction at random, made
unpredictable changes of speed, with telepathic synchronicity. They were two
dancers, moving to the same inner music, two leaves caught up in the same
breeze. It was uncanny and perfectly familiar. I’d have liked to watch them
longer, but, fearful that they might turn and catch me staring, I pulled myself
away.

After a few hundred yards the lodge gates came into view. The
gates themselves were not only closed but welded to the ground and each other
by writhing twists of ivy that wove in and out of the elaborate metalwork. Over
the gates, a pale stone arch sat high above the road, its sides extending into
two small single-room buildings with windows. In one window a piece of paper
was displayed. Inveterate reader that I am, I couldn’t resist; I clambered
through the long wet grass to read it. But it was a ghost notice. The colored
logo of a construction company had survived, but beneath it, two pale gray
stains the shape of paragraphs and, slightly darker but not much, the shadow of
a signature. It had the shape of writing, but the meaning had been bleached out
by months of sunshine.

Preparing to walk a long way around the boundary to find a way
in, I had taken only a few steps when I came to a small wooden gate set in a
wall with nothing but a latch to fasten it. In an instant I was inside.

The drive had once been graveled, but now the pebbles underfoot
were interspersed with bare earth and scrubby grass. It led in a long curve to
a small stone and flint church with a lych-gate, then curved the other way,
behind a sweep of trees and shrubs that obscured the view. On each side the
borders were overgrown; branches of different bushes were fighting for space
and at their feet grass and weeds were creeping into whatever spaces they could
find.

I walked toward the church. Rebuilt in Victorian times, it
retained the modesty of its medieval origins. Small and neat, its spire
indicated the direction of heaven without trying to pierce a hole in it. The
church was positioned at the apex of the gravel curve; as I drew closer my eye
veered away from the lych-gate and toward the vista that was opening up on the
other side of me. With each step, the view widened and widened, until at last
the pale mass of stone that was Angelfield House appeared and I stopped dead in
my tracks.

The house sat at an awkward angle. Arriving from the drive, you
came upon a corner, and it was not at all clear which side of the house was the
front. It was as though the house knew it ought to meet its arriving visitors
face-on, but at the last minute couldn’t repress the impulse to turn back and
gaze upon the deer park and the woodlands at the end of the terraces. The
visitor was met not by a welcoming smile but by a cold shoulder.

This sense of awkwardness was only increased by the other
aspects of its appearance. The house was of asymmetrical construction. Three
great bays, each one four stories high, stood out from the body of the house,
their twelve tall and wide windows offering the only order and harmony the
facade could muster. In the rest of the house, the windows were a
higgledy-piggledy arrangement, no two alike, none level with its neighbor
whether left and right or up and down. Above the third floor, a balustrade
tried to hold the disparate architecture together in a single embrace, but here
and there a jutting stone, a partial bay, an awkward window, were too much for
it; it disappeared only to start up again the other side of the obstacle. Above
this balustrade there rose an uneven roofline of towers, turrets and chimney
stacks, the color of honey.

A ruin? Most of the golden stone looked as clean and as fresh as
the day it had been quarried. Of course the elaborate stonework of the turrets
looked a little worn, the balustrading was crumbling in places, but all the
same, it was hardly a ruin. To see it then, with the blue sky behind it, birds
flying around its towers and the grass green round about, I had no difficulty
at all in imagining the place inhabited.

Then I put my glasses on, and realized.

The windows were empty of glass and the frames had rotted or
burned away. What I had taken for shadows over the windows on the right-hand
side were fire stains. And the birds swooping in the sky above the house were
not diving down behind the building but inside it. There was no roof. It was
not a house but only a shell.

I took my glasses off again and the scene reverted to an intact
Elizabethan house. Might one get a sense of brooding menace if the sky were
painted indigo and the moon suddenly clouded over? Perhaps. But against today’s
cloudless blue the scene was innocence itself.

A barrier stretched across the drive. Attached to it was a
notice. Danger. Keep Out. Noticing a join in the fence where the sections were
just lodged together, I shifted a panel, slipped inside and pulled it to behind
me.

Skirting the cold shoulder I came to the front of the house.
Between the first and second bays, six broad, low steps led up to a paneled
double door. The steps were flanked by a pair of low pedestals, on which were
mounted two giant cats carved out of some dark, polished material. The
undulations of their anatomy were so persuasively carved that, running my
fingers over one, I half expected fur, was startled by the cool hardness of the
stone.

It was the ground-floor window of the third bay that was marked
by the darkest fire-staining. Perched on a chunk of fallen masonry, I was tall
enough to peer inside. What I saw caused a deep disquiet to bloom in my chest.
There is something universal, something familiar to all, in the concept of a
room. Though my bedroom over the shop and my childhood bedroom at my parents’
house and my bedroom at Miss Winter’s are all very different, they nonetheless
share certain elements, elements that remain constant in all places and for all
people. Even a temporary encampment has something overhead to protect it from
the elements, space for a person to enter, move about, and leave, and something
that permits you to distinguish between inside and outside. Here there was none
of that.

Beams had fallen, some at one end only so that they cut the
space diagonally, coming to rest on the heaps of masonry, woodwork and other
indistinguishable material that filled the room to the level of the window. Old
birds’ nests were wedged in various nooks and angles. The birds must have
brought seeds; snow and rain had flooded in with the sunlight, and somehow, in
this wreck of a place, plants were growing: I saw the brown winter branches of
buddleia, and elders grown spindly reaching for the light. Like a pattern on wallpaper,
ivy scrambled up the walls. Craning my neck, I looked up, as into a dark
tunnel. Four tall walls were still intact, but instead of seeing a ceiling, I
saw only four thick beams, irregularly spaced, and beyond them more empty space
before another few beams, then the same again and again. At the end of the
tunnel was light. The sky.

Not even a ghost could survive here.

It was almost impossible to think that once there had been
draperies, furnishings, paintings. Chandeliers had lit up what was now illuminated
by the sun. What had it been, this room? A drawing room, a music room, a dining
room?

I squinted at the mass of stuff heaped in the room. Out of the
jumble of unrecognizable stuff that had once been a home, something caught my
eye. I had taken it at first for a half-fallen beam, but it wasn’t thick
enough. And it appeared to have been attached to the wall. There was another.
Then another. At regular intervals, these lengths of wood seemed to have joints
in them, as if other pieces of wood had once been attached at right angles. In
fact, there, in a corner, was one where these other sections were still
present.

Knowledge tingled in my spine.

These beams were shelves. This jumble of nature and wrecked
architecture was a library.

In a moment I had clambered through the glassless window.

Carefully I made my way around, testing my footing at every
step. I peered into corners and dark crevices, but there were no books. Not
that I had expected any—they would never survive the conditions. But I hadn’t
been able to help looking.

For a few minutes I concentrated on my photographs. I took shots
of the glassless window frames, the timber planks that used to hold books, the
heavy oak door in its massive frame.

Trying to get the best picture of the great stone fireplace, I
was bending from the waist, leaning slightly sideways, when I paused. I
swallowed, noted my slightly raised heartbeat. Was it something I had heard? Or
felt? Had something shifted deep in the arrangement of rubble beneath my feet?
But no. It was nothing. All the same, I picked my way carefully to the edge of
the room, where there was a hole in the masonry large enough to step through.

I was in the main hallway. Here were the high double doors I had
seen from outside. The staircase, being made of stone, had survived the fire
intact. A broad sweep upward, the handrail and balustrades now ivy clad, the
solid lines of its architecture were nonetheless clear: a graceful curve
widening into a shell-like curl at its base. A kind of fancy upside-down
apostrophe.

The staircase led to a gallery that must once have run the
entire width of the entrance hall. To one side there was only a jagged edge of
floorboards and a drop to the stone floor below. The other side was almost complete.
The vestiges of a handrail along the gallery, and then a corridor. A ceiling,
stained but intact; a floor; doors even. It was the first part of the house I
had seen that appeared to have escaped the general destruction. It looked like
somewhere you could live.

I took a few quick pictures and then, testing each new board
beneath my feet before shifting my weight, moved warily into the corridor.

The handle of the first door opened onto a sheer drop, branches
and blue sky. No walls, no ceiling, no floor, just fresh outdoors air.

I pulled the door closed again and edged along the corridor,
determined not to be unnerved by the dangers of the place. Watching my feet all
the time, I came to the second door.

I turned the handle and let the door swing open.

There was movement!

My sister!

Almost I took a step toward her.

Almost.

Then I realized. A mirror. Shadowy with dirt and tarnished with
dark spots that looked like ink.

I looked down to the floor I had been about to step onto. There
were no boards, only a drop of twenty feet onto hard stone flags.

I knew now what I had seen, yet still my heart continued its
frenzy. I raised my eyes again, and there she was. A white-faced waif with dark
eyes, a hazy, uncertain figure trembling inside the old frame.

She had seen me. She stood, hand raised toward me longingly, as
though all I had to do was step forward to take it. And would it not be the
simplest solution, all told, to do that and at last rejoin her?

How long did I stand there, watching her wait for me?

‘No,“ I whispered, but still her arm beckoned me. ”I’m sorry.“
Her arm slowly fell.

Then she raised a camera and took a photograph of me.

I was sorry for her. Pictures through glass never come out. I
know. I’ve tried.

I stood with my hand on the handle of the third door. The rule
of three, Miss Winter had said. But I wasn’t in the mood for her story anymore.
Her dangerous house with its indoor rain and trick mirror had lost its interest
for me.

I would go. To take photographs of the church? Not even that. I
would go to the village store. I would telephone a taxi. Go to the station and
from there home.

All this I would do, in a minute. For the time being, I wanted
to stay like this, head leaning against the door, fingers on the handle,
indifferent to whatever was beyond, and waiting for the tears to pass and my
heart to calm itself.

I waited.

Then, beneath my fingers, the handle to the third room began to
turn of its own accord.