The Unquiet House (26 page)

And the house –
Mire House
as it was now – had people in it again. She sometimes heard voices drifting through the open windows, what she thought of as
smart
voices,
not-from-round-here
voices. She still hadn’t really seen the new wife, despite her curious glances. There was no news of the ‘soirée’. Perhaps even now they might be preparing for it, polishing glasses and winding the gramophone. There had been more talk in the village of them asking for servants, but everyone who might have done it had either enlisted or volunteered. Even the girls had gone for the W.V.S. or the Land Army or best of all, to the envy of the rest, the smartly dressed Wrens. They had choices
aplenty now. Sometimes Aggie felt she was the only one who had been left behind, the only one whose options had actually been
reduced
by the war.

You will never be content. You shall never be happy
.

She pushed the thought away. Anyway, thinking about the war meant wondering about Eddie or Will, and she didn’t want to do that, not now. She certainly didn’t want her mind to turn to the enemy, firing their bullets or releasing gases that choked and blinded. She pulled a face. They were supposed to carry their gasmasks everywhere and the box was hanging at her side now from its piece of string, its weight so familiar she had almost forgotten it was there.

She paused in her walk down the lane and looked at Mire House. The car parked in the driveway was a highly polished Daimler. The building looked just the same as it always had, but she thought she could see the glint of a crystal chandelier in the front room. Despite that, it still gave the impression of being abandoned, as if it had an emptiness that could never be filled.

And then she started, because she realised that someone was looking back at her. A small figure was standing on the edge of the lawn. She didn’t know how she had failed to notice it before because it had bright golden curls crowning its head. She looked more closely and realised it was a boy. He wore ragged grey shorts and a shirt that had possibly once been white and a V-neck pully over the top – even from here she could see that it was full of holes. There was something pinned to the front of it, a piece of paper with lettering on it. His face was pale and streaked; it looked as if he had been crying.

He didn’t look away, just kept on staring until it was past the point of rudeness. Aggie realised she was staring too. She opened
her mouth to greet him, but somehow she didn’t speak. She knew at once that he had come from somewhere else, a different world to the one she knew. Then a voice rang out: ‘Now where
is
that other one? Come along child, it’s your turn.’ The voice was raised and irritated and
smart
, and before she had known she was going to move, Aggie stepped back behind the gatepost.

She peered out again in time to see the boy being pulled inside, a tall woman with light brown hair grasping his sleeve with blood-red fingertips. Aggie breathed a sigh of relief, then smiled at herself. She actually found herself thinking,
Thank goodness he is real
. What had she expected? They had taken in an evacuee, that was all. Her mother would be glad of that. Then she remembered the words,
your turn
, and she realised there must be others. So there would be children at Mire House after all.

She remembered the woman’s words, as cold as the press of her hands:
No children
.

But these were somebody else’s children, she argued against the voice. They would only be here for a short time, just to make sure they were safe. Surely no one would begrudge them that.

No children, not ever
.

Not ever
.

Aggie heard the music before the house was even in sight. She tried to remember what the tune was called as her mother tugged at her arm. She stumbled against the grass verge; the name slipped away from her and she pulled a face her mother couldn’t see. It was pitch-dark and she was wearing her best clothes, the organdie dress with the little blue flowers and puffed sleeves, and her hair was perfectly curled. But it still wasn’t right. She remembered staring into the mirror, trying to see that shining hair and not the mole just by her lip, and then she’d shrugged and applied the only lipstick she owned – a tiny stub of Tangee an old school friend had given her.

When she’d gone downstairs, her mother had grunted something about
good-time girls
and held out a cloth. She hadn’t needed to say anything else. The colour had come off on the bleach-smelling fabric and Aggie’s mouth now felt dry and cracked. She’d wanted to complain but her mother had held out her coat and they’d extinguished the lights before stepping outside.

Still, at least they were really going, and it was an actual
party
. The thought of the ‘little mites’ at Mire House had done much to soften her mother’s feelings towards its residents. If only
Aggie had a little lipstick or some other make-up to make her look presentable; to make her look as if she might be worth dancing with.

At that thought an image of Eddie rose before her and she wondered if
this
was the place in the lane that she’d run into him,
or this, or this
. She might be standing on the very spot where he had wrapped his arms around her, but then she saw the dark outline of the house and she realised that no, she must have passed it already, without even realising. As they turned in at the gate, to bring her all the way back to reality, a fine mizzle began to drift like mist out of the dark sky.

She looked up. There were only a few stars tonight, and she couldn’t make out any clouds, though she knew they must be there, blanking out the rest. The house was dark too; the new Mrs Hollingworth clearly had no need of help to manage the blackout. The windows were as blank as –
as a dead woman’s eyes
, Aggie thought, and she pushed the idea away.

Another brief strain of music escaped and she recognised the simple, lilting refrain of ‘Run Rabbit Run’ before it was gone. It was followed by a peal of trilling laughter before that too was cut off.

Her mother pulled her arm even tighter. ‘Stop dilly-dallying about,’ she said. Aggie wrinkled her nose but didn’t reply. Her mother had on a heavy woollen skirt and the best stockings she owned, but they were still yellowed and baggy. Her blouse was old – she had ‘made it good as new’, so she said, by stitching a new front onto the back of an old one.
Can’t she see where they don’t match?
Anyone could. They’d see and they’d laugh at them. They would probably never even have been invited if they didn’t live so close by and if they didn’t have a farm. When
he’d heard about the invitation, her father had said,
Any farmer can find a friend in wartime
. His voice had a bitter tone when he said that. She hadn’t been surprised when he’d said he wasn’t coming.

They started up the drive and her mother let go of her arm and went on in front, knocking far too loudly on the big front door. After a moment it opened onto darkness. ‘Come in, come in,’ a woman’s voice said: ‘We do need to mind the blackout, you know.’

They stepped inside and the door closed behind them. Another opened and light and sound flooded out. A tripping jazz tune brought a smile to Aggie’s lips and she found herself tapping her foot along to it as her mother talked. She couldn’t think what had got into her, pushing out words at the hostess as if she’d never shut up: about how nice it was to be invited and what a lovely room and how her husband was indisposed, just as if they were friends, and the woman – Mrs Hollingworth – nodded and glanced over her shoulder as if she couldn’t wait to get away.

Aggie looked about her. The room
was
fine. A crystal chandelier hung above it all and there was grand-looking furniture polished to a gleam, unlike their battered things at the farm. It was positioned oddly, pushed into corners or against the walls, and hope rose within her: it must be meant for dancing. Except that nobody was; people stood about in little clusters, chatting and laughing. Apparently no one worried about a scandalously hasty marriage when a party was in the offing. With dismay she realised she knew almost every single one of the other guests, and that most of them were women. She saw them all the time at the volunteer centre or in the shops or
at church. She knew from Sunday mornings that they were wearing their best dresses now; some had little white gloves; one or two had fur stoles around their necks.

‘Nice to ’ear about the evacuees, Mrs ’Ollingworth,’ her mother was saying. ‘Nice to see the place wi’ a bit o’ life in it.’

Mrs Hollingworth laughed, sweeping a glass of pink gin from the sideboard and passing her mother a tiny glass of sherry. Her nails clicked against it: they were long and Cutex-red and perfect, and Aggie saw with envy that her lipstick matched. She glanced around; she appeared to be the only one who had matching lips and nails.

‘
Do
please call me Antonia.’

‘Lovely that you’re taking good care of them. Just lovely.’

‘Oh goodness, you would
not
have believed. They were
filthy
. So filthy! I had to
scrub
them in carbolic, and even then, one of them insisted the dirt didn’t come off. He really thought it never did! Quite tinker-class, apart from my nephew, naturally. And their
hair
… I never used so much insect powder in my life. Never! Well, in the end, I had to cut it off. Blond hair and blue eyes, I’d told them especially, I
do
so like blond hair and blue eyes, and now it’s all gone.’ She sipped at her drink, leaving a greasy red crescent on the rim. Then she looked out across the room and raised her hand as if she were greeting someone new, and with the jingling of bracelets she floated away.

Aggie frowned. She hadn’t heard of one of the evacuees being a relation – but still, it was only a nephew, only temporary. She looked at her mother, who blinked and sipped at her sherry before noticing a contingent of ladies from the church flower-arranging rota and she too drifted away.

The music changed, a quick-step this time, but still no one was dancing. She glanced towards the table where the glasses stood and thought of pouring her own sherry, imagining her mother’s scandalised shriek. She’d be marched home quicker than she could –
quick-step
. She pulled a face.

She could still hear Mrs Hollingworth –
Antonia
– talking, even from the other side of the room. Her voice was shrill and carried easily across the hubbub. ‘Oh my, yes, isn’t it an
awful
colour? Green, I ask you!
Frightfully
dull.’ Aggie realised she was talking about the walls and she looked about again. The colour was calm, restful. Perhaps that was the reason Mrs Hollingworth didn’t like it. Perhaps she merely wished to eradicate any trace of the woman who had chosen it.

Behind the door through which she’d entered was another table and she saw that this one was laden with slices of cake. She sauntered over there, her skirt swinging against her legs in time with the rhythm. She had so hoped for dancing and now there was only this. She could have cried with disappointment.

The Victoria sponge didn’t look promising but she tried it anyway and pulled a face before she could stop herself. There was hardly any sugar and it was chewy in the middle, nothing like her mother’s. She resisted the urge to spit it out. No wonder the woman needed servants if this was how she made cake. Now it was in her hand, though, she’d have to finish it or her mother would accuse her of being sinful. Food was food and cake was cake. She swallowed the heavy stuff and then she nearly
did
spit it out when the tablecloth brushed against her legs.

She stared down at it, then bent and lifted one corner. For a moment everything was grey and then she made out the white rims of a little boy’s eyes. She blinked. His head was a shaven
dome and it took her a moment to realise that it was the child she’d seen in the garden with his beautiful curls, awaiting his ‘turn’. Now nothing about him had any colour; it was as if he had been formed from the shadows.

She realised she was just standing there, still holding the tablecloth, and she glanced over her shoulder before sinking to the floor and pulling it back into place behind her. The boy let out a stifled giggle and she was glad at once that she had done it, no matter how silly she would feel if she were caught.

‘You’re that lass.’ His accent was broad Sheffield.

‘I am that.’ She smiled, though she doubted he could see it in the dim light.

‘You posh?’

‘Not really.’ His words made her want to giggle too, as if she were a child again.

‘
She’s
posh.’

Aggie’s eyes adjusted and she could see him more clearly; she saw the face he pulled. It didn’t belong on the face of a little boy and she wondered how old he was; she had assumed he was about eight or nine, but there was a hard expression in his eyes. She wondered if that was a sign of being from the city or parted from his mother, or if it was something else.

‘I don’ like ’er,’ he said.

‘Oh. Well, that’s a shame. She might grow on you.’

He didn’t answer.

‘At least you’re safe here now, aren’t you? Your mother must be very glad, knowing you’re safe.’

He shrugged.

‘And it
is
nice here, you know. It’s colder now, but it’s pretty in summer. There’s fields and skylarks and hedgerows and
flowers and all sorts. You’ll see. Maybe she’ll take you nutting, or she could bring you to see our chickens if you want. We’ve horses too, and pigs, and—’

‘I want me mam.’

She realised from the boy’s voice that he was close to tears. ‘Oh – hush, it’ll be all right. You’ll settle in, you’ll see. The school’s nice. Me brother went there – you’ll like it. There’ll be games.’

He tilted his head and she waited for him to speak. When he did, his voice was hopeful. ‘Can you play sardines?’ he asked.

*

There were four of them: Tom, Hal, Arthur and Clarence. The one she’d found under the table was Tom. The sight of them made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t so much their shorn heads as the fact that only Arthur’s hair remained. He sat a little apart from the others, looking just as a little boy should, his dark fringe complementing his ruddy cheeks. In contrast, the others’ eyes looked huge and their heads too big for their bodies. In the case of Hal and Tom, perhaps they
were
too big – her mother would have said they were skinny as rats in winter. They all wore shirts and grey pullies, but the quality and condition differed. Clarence, like Arthur, had clothes that looked like new, but his head too was shaved, an odd contrast with his pale eyelashes. His eyes were dull with resentment. She thought she could guess which of them all was Mrs Hollingworth’s nephew.