House of Echoes (13 page)

D
r Robert Simms was rector of the church at Belheddon from 1914 until 1926. Standing in front of the stained-glass window which had been erected to his memory in the church Joss wondered just how much he had been able to comfort Lydia in her last months. Had he sprinkled Holy Water around the house? Had he buried her son? Presumably he had buried her. The grave out in the churchyard was overgrown now with nettles and covered in ivy but, scraping away the moss she had found the inscription:

What happened to the sons of this house that they died so young? Walking back slowly up the path from the church towards the gate into the garden Joss stopped for a minute beside her brothers’ graves. Luke had cut the nettles now, and she had scraped away some of the moss and planted bulbs in the cold earth between them. She shivered. Edgar Gower’s words kept returning to her: ‘Don’t embroil yourself in the affairs of the Duncans; Belheddon Hall is an unhappy house, my dear. The past is the past; it should be allowed to rest.’ Was there something terribly wrong at Belheddon? And if there was, why did she feel so happy here? Why did Luke love it so much? Why had they not felt the evil which had so terrified Lydia and Laura?

Luke was lying under the Bentley, a spanner in his hand when she walked into the courtyard. ‘Hi there!’ His voice came from
the shadows beneath the chassis. ‘Lyn has taken Tom into Colchester. Are you feeling better after your walk?’

‘A bit.’ She leaned against the coach house wall, hands in pockets, staring down at his feet. ‘Luke, do you want a coffee? There’s something I want to ask you.’

‘Why not.’ He scooted himself out from beneath the car and grinned. There was a patch of oil on his forehead and his hands as always now were ingrained with black.

‘So?’ Blowing on the hot mug he sat at the kitchen table. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘There’s something wrong, Luke. Terribly wrong. Can’t you feel it?’ She sat opposite him. The smell of the coffee was making her feel sick again.

His face sobered. ‘In what way wrong? Not the baby?’

‘No, not the baby. Luke, I’ve found letters and diaries and things, written by my mother and grandmother.’

‘I know. I’ve seen you engrossed in them.’ He reached for the biscuit tin and levered off the lid. ‘I thought they interested you.’ He poured some more coffee into his mug.

‘They both talk about something dreadful, something terrifying in the house.’

‘Oh Joss.’ He shook his head. ‘Not that again. Not the devil himself, living in the cellar? For goodness sake!’ He heaved himself to his feet, grabbing another biscuit. ‘Listen love, I’ve got to go back to work. I need to try and sort out that carburettor by lunch time if I can.’ He bent over her and kissed the top of her head. ‘Don’t look for problems where there aren’t any. We are damn lucky to have this place. We’re happy here. It’s given us the chance of a new start, and it’s given you a second family to research and get to know. But keep your imagination for your book, Joss. This was real life. Real people living in real times. It wasn’t fiction. Maybe your grandmother and your mother were neurotic. You don’t know. Maybe they were both incipient novelists – perhaps that’s where you get it from. We don’t know. All we know is that this is a fabulous, happy house. Alice and Joe will be here tomorrow, it’s Christmas in three days and our own family is the one that you should be thinking about.’

He had been right, of course. Every time over Christmas when her thoughts returned to the tragedy of her brothers’ deaths, or
her mother or her grandmother’s fears Joss firmly brought them back to the realities of running a house full of people, cooking on an antiquated stove, thinking about the book and scribbling notes on the pad she kept in the pocket of her jeans and keeping Tom’s excitement within bounds all the while hiding as much as possible her lingering morning sickness and exhaustion. Alice was not fooled for a moment but she went along with the deception in spite of Joe’s protests that she must not do too much herself, calmly and firmly taking as much as possible out of Joss’s hands and slowly, to her surprise Joss found that she was indeed beginning to relax. With people in it the house did not seem so large. The silences had gone; every room was full of family, whispering, wrapping presents, hiding parcels. The silver glitter on the tree was the only thing that moved in the shadows and the voices were silent. Twice she went out onto the lawn late at night to look up at the stars alone. Awed by their frosty beauty she stood quite still, her hands pushed down into the pockets of her jacket, imagining the ethereal beauty of the music of the spheres ringing through the silence of the garden. But in reality she could hear nothing but the distant piping of the pewits under the moon on the fields and the quick urgent hunting calls of the little owl as it quartered the old gardens beyond the lake.

‘Sammy? Georgie?’ Her call was tentative, making her feel a little foolish. She knew there was no one there. Probably she had imagined it all.

She smiled to herself as she turned back towards the courtyard. It was going to be a good Christmas and they were all going to enjoy Belheddon and be very very happy there.

Three weeks after Christmas, Joe came and found Joss dozing by the fire in the study, her notebooks on her knee, a pen lying slack between her fingers. ‘Your mother’s not well, Joss. The doctor said she mustn’t tire herself out and that’s just what she’s been doing these last few weeks. I’m taking her home so she can rest. And Lyn will still be here to help. She’s a good girl, and she’s loving the country life.’ His face creased into a network of deep wrinkles as he smiled at her fondly.

‘Dad.’ Joss reached out for his hand. She had been dreaming, she realised, about Richard, happily living inside the plot of her book, walking around an earlier, more primitive but sun-filled
Belheddon. ‘I had no idea Mum was ill! Why didn’t she tell me?’

‘She didn’t want anyone to know. And there’s nothing rest and a bit of TLC from her old husband can’t put right. Don’t you go worrying yourself now. Just let us go home quietly.’

Sitting in her bedroom later Joss looked up at Lyn who was standing by the window. ‘She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.’

‘Nor me.’ Lyn bit her lip. ‘You know what she’s like. She never makes a fuss.’ There were tears brimming in her eyes. She turned to Joss. ‘If she gets worse I’ll have to go back. I can’t leave them on their own.’

‘Of course you can’t. Lyn, why won’t they stay here? We could both look after them.’

Lyn shook her head. ‘Come on, Joss. This is your home. Your real parents’ home. However lovely it is here, this is not Mum and Dad’s scene. It’s not really mine, though I’m prepared to make a big sacrifice.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘They’re not really happy out of London, you know that. All their friends are there. The rest of the family is there. This is fantasy land. They are pleased for you – really pleased – but they don’t belong.’

‘I suppose so.’ Joss leaned back on the bed with a sigh. ‘Why do things have to change, Lyn? Why do people get old and ill. It seems so unfair.’

‘It’s life.’ Lyn headed for the door. ‘Some people get old, others have babies. I’m not a philosopher like you, but even I can see that’s the way it works. I expect every new generation puts up a fight as it sees old age coming, then it gives up and accepts the inevitable. You rest now. You look washed out too. You know the doctor told you not to do too much. I’ll take Tom for a walk and we’ll have a cup of tea later, OK? Once it gets dark and Luke’s indoors.’

Shivering, Joss pulled the counterpane up over herself. Outside the garden was very still. A sprinkling of snow that morning had melted and everything was dank and dripping. She smiled as she heard Tom’s voice, shrill and excited, outside the window, then it faded as Lyn took him down the drive towards the village and the room sank back into silence. After a while she dozed, drifting in and out of sleep. The room grew darker. Shivering she wriggled down further into the bed, her eyes shut.

The hand on her forehead was cool; gentle. It seemed to soothe her.

Katherine, my clever love
.

‘Luke?’ she murmured, barely awake. His hand had moved down to her breast and languidly, still half asleep, she moved beneath the gentle fingers. ‘I’ll come down, soon.’ She slept again.

When she woke it was dark. She lay still for a moment, still wrapped in her dream, her body glowing, sleepily aware of the hands which had caressed her breasts as she slept. Groping for the light switch she looked at her watch. It was nearly five. With a groan she heaved herself off the bed and stood up. The house was still silent. Probably Lyn had put the television on in the kitchen to keep Tom quiet while she made his tea, the routine they had fallen into so Joss could keep the afternoons for writing. She had almost two complete chapters finished now as well as a sheaf of notes and a chronology of the Wars of the Roses. Luke would be in by now. The house downstairs would be warm and busy and welcoming. She shivered, reaching for a thick sweater and pulling it over her head. All she had to do was go downstairs.

The last two entries in the diary had been short. Her grandmother had written:

Four days later she wrote:

That was all. The rest of the book was empty. Four days later she was dead.

Shivering Joss put the diary back into the bedside drawer. She wished she had not read that. The thought of the woman alone in the house, completely alone and dying, was intolerable. She stood up, conscious of a slight cramp in her leg and went to look down into the garden. It was very black. Rain slanted down across the grass dissolving the last remaining patches of snow.

‘Joss!’

It was Lyn calling up the staircase. ‘Phone call for you.’

Shaking herself Joss turned away from the darkness and ran downstairs. In the study Lyn had thrown several logs onto the fire and the room was almost hot. ‘David.’ She nodded towards the phone which lay on the desk. ‘He sounds excited.’

‘David?’ Joss put the receiver to her ear.

‘Joss. Only a week until school starts. Can I come up and see you?’ He sounded almost breathless.

‘Of course. You know we’ve got room.’ Joss sat down at the desk, pressing the phone to her ear unaware that her voice was seductively husky with sleep. Her hands were, she realised suddenly, shaking. ‘Any special reason?’

‘Wait and see. I’ll be down tomorrow if that’s all right. And you will never guess who I met at a dinner yesterday. A chap called Gerald Andrews who is your friendly local historian. He and I belong to the same club, it seems. Listen, we had quite a talk about Belheddon. I gave him your phone number and he is going to get in touch. And Joss. I am having lunch next week with Robert Cassie. If you have got some stuff ready for our book I could deliver it in person and if that’s not an incentive, I don’t know what is! See you tomorrow.’

‘He’s coming down.’ Joss put the phone down and came to join Lyn by the fire. ‘He seems to have found out some more about the house.’

‘You and your bloody house!’ Lyn shook her head. ‘Can’t you think of anything else?’

Joss flinched. ‘I’m sorry. Am I being boring?’

‘You certainly are.’ Lyn reached for the poker and stabbed ferociously at the fire. ‘Still I’m glad David is coming down. He seems to be our only remaining link with civilisation.’

‘The country is getting to you.’ Joss smiled, determined not to be goaded.

‘Well even you can’t like it in this bloody weather. No doubt it will improve when spring comes,’ Lyn relented a little. ‘The vicar came while you were asleep. He brought the parish magazine, a piece of paper asking for jumble and a packet for you from someone called Mary Sutton.’

Joss stared at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before? Where is it?’

‘In the kitchen. Joss – ’

As Joss scrambled to her feet she was brought up short by the
anguish in Lyn’s voice. ‘You do realise Ma might be dying, don’t you?’

Joss froze. ‘She’s not dying, Lyn. She’s tired. Not very well – ’

‘She’s got to have lots of tests, Joss. Dad told me on the phone. She doesn’t want you to know. She thinks it might upset you.’ Lyn’s voice was suddenly harsh. ‘Apparently they don’t mind upsetting me.’

‘Oh, Lyn.’ Joss knelt and put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. ‘You know Mum and Dad. It’s because of the baby. They come from a generation who thought any old thing could upset a baby on the way. They’ve told you because they want your comfort.’

‘I wanted to go to be with them. They don’t want me. They want me to stay here.’

‘Then stay here.’ Joss’s arms tightened round her. ‘When they need you they will tell you.’

‘You think so?’ Lyn’s eyes were full of tears.

‘Of course.’

For a while they sat together in front of the fire, lost in thought, then at last Joss climbed stiffly to her feet. ‘Come on. Let’s make a cup of tea.’

Lyn nodded. She sniffed. ‘I’ll get the young lord and master up from his rest. You go and put the kettle on.’

The packet from Mary Sutton was a large envelope. Lyn had left it on the kitchen table with the parish magazine, a flimsy pamphlet with a lurid purple cover. Eyeing the package Joss filled the kettle and put it on the hot plate. Only then did she allow herself to open it. It contained another notebook – by now Joss was familiar with her mother’s jottings; she must have bought a whole stack of them in a job lot somewhere – and a few more letters and some photographs. She glanced at the photos. Sammy and Georgie. She didn’t need the pencilled names on the back to identify them. They were black and white school photos, she guessed, both wearing the same school uniform in spite of the eight-year gap between them. Sammy was very dark – she could see the resemblance to herself – with a thin, intense face and round light coloured eyes, perhaps blue like her own. Georgie was fairer, chubbier, more mischievous. Both had been about six when the photos were taken. She stared down at them for a long time before she saw the note scribbled by Mary. ‘I thought you
could have the photos of my boys. The other things I found the other day. You may as well have them too.’