Abigale Hall (6 page)

*

It was late, but this would not wait till morning. He needed answers now. He pounded his fist on the door. He wouldn't stop until it was opened.

‘Miss Haverford. Miss Haverford!'

‘Who is it?' Bess's voice carried into the hall. So she was home now.

‘Peter. Peter Lamb.'

‘It's late, Peter.'

‘I know. But I need to speak with you. Urgently.' He straightened himself up, tried to sound like his father.

‘I'm in no state for visitors. Please, go home.'

‘Not till you tell me about Eliza. Where is she? Where has she gone?'

There was a pause. The door barely opened, stopped by the chain. Bess seemed disinclined to remove it. Peter was about to demand entry when he noticed her face. She was without make-up, and her pale complexion and unpainted lips drew more attention to the bloated black bruise under her left eye. Conscious of his staring, she turned her head away.

‘Eliza is no longer your concern.'

The door closed, leaving Peter standing there alone, the letter from Eliza crumpled in his fist.

Only a sliver of moonlight shone through the dirtied windows, but it was all Eliza needed to see the framed photograph on her bedside table. Despite her exhaustion, she was unable to sleep. She was accustomed to having her sister beside her and, while grateful for not having to share this tiny bed, she couldn't shake the sensation that a part of her was missing.

A shadow passed by the window. Eliza shrank back. There were all sorts of stories about what lurked in the Welsh hills, legends easily conjured up by her tired mind. She focused on the photograph instead – she with her mother, father and baby Rebecca outside the Royal Pavilion in 1935. She was five years old and Rebecca about six months. Eliza remembered the smell of salt water, a seagull leaving a mess on her pink dress and Rebecca crying at night. They went to Brighton every summer up until the war. It was where her parents had met. They had taken hundreds of photographs over the years, had bought dozens of souvenirs, and this was all that survived. The war took the rest.

Unable to sleep in the bright moonlight, Eliza rose to shut the curtains. Her fingers froze around the fabric, unable to draw them closed. Outside stood a beast. It possessed the outline of a dog, but one larger than any natural animal of the earth, its bristled fur black and matted. Hellhound, she thought. The beast that appears to those about to die. It turned its misshapen head towards her, eyes glowing red, white fangs reflecting the night-time glow. It lifted its muzzle upwards, prepared to howl.

She yanked the curtains shut and cowered beneath the window, hugging her knees to her chest while she waited for the sound which would pull her soul from her body and send it to the demons below. Silence rang in her ears. Steadying herself, she peeked through the curtains. Only the empty lawn remained. Two days of exhaustion must have been playing tricks on her mind. A nervous laugh did little to ease her frantic heartbeat.

Eliza crawled back into bed and drew the covers up to her chest. Though the curtains blocked the moonlight, she could still see the silver outline of the picture frame. She closed her eyes, telling herself Rebecca was fine, and tried to smell salt water and listen for seagulls. She could not hear the child crying.

*

The alarm clock announced the hour with a screech. Eliza silenced it as quick as she could. Six a.m. She could either sleep another half an hour or finally take the bath she desperately needed. With a groan, she forced her body out of bed.

Carrying a clean dress and undergarments, her old towel and some soap, she crept up the hall to the bathroom then locked herself inside. With her measuring tape, Eliza made a careful five-inch line along the tub. She missed the days when Mother would fill the tub to the brim, and she and Rebecca would spend hours playing in water scented with Coty's bath salts.

‘If it's good enough for the king and queen, it's good enough for me,' she sighed. The taps, nearly rusted shut, turned after a few hard twists, and the pipes spluttered to life. When was the last time Thornecroft had a housemaid, she wondered. The first water to emerge was brown and carried a stench of sewage, but the pipes soon cleared. Eliza bathed slowly, letting the tepid water massage her aching neck and stiff limbs. Despite the lukewarm temperature, it was better than the cold baths she was accustomed to at Aunt Bess's flat.

As she climbed out of the tub, a rasping groan echoed from the hall – the same as she had heard in Abigale Hall. She listened but, like yesterday, it did not repeat itself.

Shaking off the chill, Eliza dressed then opened the bathroom door only to have it yanked shut, catching her fingers in the jamb. She gasped, pulling her hand back as she listened to Rebecca shouting in the hall.

‘No! You've ruined it! You've messed it all up.'

‘Rebecca. Open the door,' Eliza said, cradling her injured hand against her chest.

‘You know you mustn't do that. You know you have to wait!' Rebecca started counting.

Eliza's hand throbbed, the pain causing her to hold her breath. Tentatively, she tried flexing her fingers. Pain made movement difficult.

Rebecca reached ten. Fifteen.

All she wanted was a calm morning. One without shouting or tears.

Twenty.

One without . . .

The door opened. Eliza grabbed Rebecca with her good hand.

‘You know you can't run about slamming doors! Look what you've done.' Eliza showed Rebecca her already swollen fingers.

‘I need a bath.'

‘You need to apologise.'

Rebecca kept her eyes on the slight bulge of her cardigan pocket. Eliza extracted the dead mouse. It was cold and stiff now.

‘This is filth. I told you. Do you want to go back on medication? Do you want to go back to hospital?'

Rebecca shook her head.

‘Take your bath. There's already water in the tub. Don't waste it.'

Without looking behind her, Eliza marched to her bedroom then hefted open the heavy window and tossed the little corpse outside. She heard it land somewhere in the grass then pulled the window back down. The cold morning air had snuck in and, with her hair still wet, she began to shiver. She wanted to wash her hands, but the basin in her room was empty. She rubbed her hand against her towel until her skin turned red.

As she chose a dress from her wardrobe, she realised how unsatisfied she was with the arrangement of her clothing. She pulled everything out, refolded and refitted it, ignoring the throb in her hand and her clumsy swollen fingers.

Still unhappy, she took the clothing out again, noticing how much ironing she needed to do. Everything was wrinkled, a shambles, unsuitable for service – the phrase from Father's letter whispered inside her head.

She threw the clothes into the wardrobe and shut its doors. She would never get it right. It would always be a bit off.

It wasn't until after she finished dressing that she realised Peter's ring had fallen from her finger. She searched the wardrobe, the windowsill, the floor. It had to be here somewhere. She couldn't lose that, too. Down on her hands and knees, she peeked under the bed and saw the gold band. The sight of it calmed her. Unable to reach it, she moved the end of the bed, exposing the floor beneath.

As she bent down to collect the ring, she noticed a crack in the floorboards. The edge of something thin, like a piece of paper, protruded from the crack like a new tooth pushing through the gum. Eliza reached for it when someone pounded on her door.

‘Eliza! Liza! It's breakfast. We're going to be late!'

She slipped the ring onto her finger and moved the bed back into position, forgetting her discovery.

*

According to Mrs Pollard, the blue towels Eliza carried belonged in the north hall linen cupboard. This was all well and good except that Mrs Pollard never told Eliza where the linen cupboard was. Which of the seemingly hundreds of doors was it? She balanced the stack in one arm as she tried yet another knob with no success. As she went further down the hall, she was reminded of when they had first moved in with Aunt Bess. So often she was given tasks without being told the necessary information.

Put that
pan away.
Away where?

Take this letter to Mrs Granderson
. Where did Mrs Granderson live?

Give this money to the
butcher
. Which butcher?

Eliza learnt to ignore Aunt Bess's annoyance and ask the necessary questions. Asking a question and receiving a rebuke along with an answer was better than spending an hour running up and down the steps of their building searching for the old woman who lived directly above them.

This part of the manor was like ice, as if no fires had been lit here for decades. The cold froze Eliza's joints.

That noise, again. That groan. Eliza stopped.

Maybe it was the pipes, but pipes didn't normally make her heart beat faster. Pipes didn't remind her of the patients in Rebecca's hospital. She tried another door. Brooms and buckets but no linens. She continued down the corridor. Every door remained the same. The wallpaper repeated an endless pattern. Eliza had no idea where she was. She clasped the towels tightly, the throb returning to her sore fingers. There appeared to be no end to the hall before her. Behind her looked the same. From which way had she come? Which way should she go? She could not even tell which door was the broom cupboard she last opened. She felt like she was on an assembly line being pulled through a never-ending tunnel. She was dizzy and, when she closed her eyes, felt herself spinning down and down.

She braced herself against a door. Its carvings pressed into her back, helping to steady her. When her head cleared, she turned to examine them. The image of books lining a bookshelf decorated the dark wood. Balancing the towels in one hand, she ran her fingers over the etchings. She thought of her lone copy of
Mrs Miniver
and wished she could pull a carving from the door, have it transform from solid wood to soft pages in her hand. Surely a decoration such as this would be for a library. Old manor homes like Thornecroft all had libraries, didn't they? Eliza reached for the curved gold handle.

Mrs Pollard's voice sounded from down the hall. Eliza dropped the towels then hurried to pick them up. In the distance, she noticed Abigale Hall. Why had she not seen it before? Towels in hand, Eliza followed the sound of the housekeeper's voice, hoping to find the location of the linen cupboard.

‘. . . making a mess of things . . .'

Halfway down the hall, a door to her right was partway open. Eliza crept closer.

‘. . . she can't interfere. Leave it to me . . .'

A light in Abigale Hall distracted Eliza. She thought it was a reflection, but it hovered above the ground, beckoning her.

‘. . . won't be any trouble . . .' Mrs Pollard said.

She stepped towards it.

‘. . . nothing like the last one . . .'

The light glided away.

‘. . . leave her to me . . .'

The light rose towards the ceiling then sank to the floor.

‘. . . she'll regret . . .'

It spiralled out of sight, down the hall to the west wing. Eliza moved to follow it when a rasping groan stopped her. Mrs Pollard had fallen quiet. Eliza turned to see the housekeeper standing in the doorway. Behind her, a dry cough came from an antique library chair of red calfskin. Mrs Pollard blocked Eliza's view before she could see any more.

‘Why are you hovering?'

‘The linen cupboard, ma'am. Where . . . ?'

Another chest-scraping cough interrupted her.

‘Give them to me.'

‘I can . . .'

‘I said give them to me.'

Eliza did so.

‘Tell Mr Drewry to ready the carriage for one o'clock. I trust that's not beyond your abilities.'

‘I . . .'

The door closed in her face.

Eliza walked towards Abigale Hall, hoping to catch another glimpse of the strange light, but there was nothing. More coughs issued from the closed room behind her, the noise reminding Eliza of Rebecca's stay in the hospital. One of the patients, Aggie, had coughed in that way. She had sat by the entrance in a rocking chair, spindly legs tucked beneath a red flannel blanket, her hacking breaths greeting visitors as they arrived. Eliza passed through the hall, suddenly chilled.

It was soon after Father died that Rebecca was sent away. She was worse, then, tapping everything, counting under her breath, never stopping. Her voice was so quiet, it had taken Eliza a week to realise it was always twenty-three – Rebecca's number – and even longer to understand why. Aunt Bess took her to the hospital in Portsmouth. She said it was her doctor who recommended the treatment, but Eliza knew how much Aunt Bess wanted rid of her.

Eliza could still hear the low murmur of voices drowned out by classical music played through tinny speakers. What she remembered most was white – white walls, white uniforms, white sheets. White made it easy to see the filth. Rebecca's ward was so damp. Patches of black mould lived on the ceiling and the corners of the walls. Sunlight was unable to reach through the dirt-glazed windows into the white rooms. Eliza felt moisture gathering in her lungs just by standing there, as if she inhaled mould with every breath, causing spores to incubate in her lungs, making them black as the walls.

The first visit itself was unremarkable. Rebecca had been sleepy, from a ‘special treatment' the nurse said, and spoke little. Eliza remained cautiously optimistic after seeing her sister so relaxed and sedated, but this minor relief evaporated when she accidentally wandered into the custody ward. These were the long-term patients, those who could never be cured. Here she saw more white – white-padded rooms, white straightjackets, white skin of those never allowed outdoors. Here, they screamed. Here, they cursed. Here, was Rebecca's future.

Eliza paused at the latticework doors which opened on to the garden. Inhaling the fresh air cleared her nose of the phantom smell of disinfectant. The hospital was nearly two years ago. Rebecca was fine now.

The sun hid behind a layer of clouds and the morning chill hung in the air as she stepped onto the garden path that led to the carriage house. It must have been a beautiful garden once, Eliza thought, as she followed the dirt footpath, but its splendour was, like most of the manor, a victim of years of neglect. There was a crumbling grey fountain, its ornate top broken off and lying in the overgrown grass while the still water in the basin grew a thick coat of green scum. The long, dead grasses tickled her ankles as she manoeuvred round deep, muddy puddles.

Thrushes and warblers sang from nearby trees, but Eliza longed for noise – sputtering car engines, honking cabbies and bicycle bells, shouting children and chattering housewives. A few birds and some rustling leaves were not enough. To Eliza's ears, all was silent.

The door out of the gardens was built into a brick wall covered in lush green ivy. The carriage house sat in the high shadow of the garden wall. Built of the same brick as the manor, it was isolated from the main house like a cast-off appendage. Two windows rested above a set of barn doors, their bevelled markings from a glassblower's pipe like sightless eyes staring down as she approached. They watched her step onto the wider tongue of dirt that led to the mouth of the house. She could hear no birds on this side of the wall, only the scraping of her shoes against the gritty path.