The Reckoning (34 page)

In here, in the big silence of the high-roofed space, the
sound of the wind was much more in evidence, and she knew
a moment of anxiety as she realised how much it had risen
even since dinner. It hooned about the walls with a wild glee,
and battered intermittently against the roof as though it were
trying to break in. She wondered about the tall east window
above the altar — that would make a fine mess if it fell in. But
it was on the leeward side of the house, and it had stood up to
storms before. Indeed, all the house had. Whatever might
happen outside, here they were safe. Sanctuary, she thought:
these walls kept out the wild wind as the church in its spir
itual sense kept out the storm of chaos which was Evil.

She turned aside into the smaller space of the Lady Chapel,
all in darkness, except where an occasional glint hinted at a
gold picture-frame or the rim of a brass fitting. The candlelight flowed like pale water before her, lapping up over the
white lace-edged cloth of the altar to the foot of the ancient
wooden statue of the Virgin. It stood between two silver
candlesticks, prettily wrought in silver. On an impulse, she
decided to light the candles from her own. Standing close up
to the altar, she could smell through the hot wax the resinous perfume of the sprays of pine in the vases, and see the glassy glint of the dark holly-leaves. No flowers for the Lady in this
dead heart of January; but the pine was sweet, and the holly
was decorative, studded with bright berries — red beads like
drops of blood.

The second candle took, and the flame bloomed and
steadied. 'There,' she said aloud, and stepped back to look at
the effect. The wind rose for an instant, and one of the roof-
beams, settling, made a cracking sound like a rifle-shot,
which made her jump; and at the same time something far
away in the house fell over with a clatter. 'Foolish,' she chided
herself, clasping her hands and pressing them against her
breast-bone to quiet the flutter of her heart. She would say
one prayer, and then go to bed. She knelt on the step, and
looked up at the altar.

How strange, she thought. The statue of the Lady, lit from
both sides by the candles, seemed to quiver in the moving light. The robes were painted blue, but the delicate hands
were gold, as was the face, whose features had grown blurred
with great age. Whatever the intention of the original carver,
it was now a soft, sweet face, with a gentle, almost sad expres
sion; and as Héloïse gazed at it, it seemed almost as though it
were weeping. Of course, she told herself, while her fascinated
eyes never left the statue, it was only the way the light caught
the imperfections in the gilding, but it did look, just for a
moment, as though there were tiny sparkling tears moving on
the gold cheeks.

And then there was another gust outside, and the flames
ducked sideways for an instant and then brightened. The illu
sion was gone. The wind moaned and banged outside the
house like a restless lunatic looking for a way in. Héloïse
crossed herself, said her prayer, then rose and blew out the
candles, and hastened up to bed and the warm shelter of
James's arms.

*

She woke in the pitch darkness of the curtained bed with the
suddenness of one called. What was it? She lay still for a
moment, holding her breath while she listened and assembled
the information from her senses. James asleep beside her, on
his side, turned away from her, his breathing steady and
quiet. Beyond the bed-curtains the house, all in stillness,
everyone asleep and in their beds. Beyond the house – ah,
there was calm! The mad riot of the wind had stopped. Was
that what had wakened her? The eye of the storm must be
passing over them. It was the cessation of sound which had
drawn her up from sleep.

She breathed again, turned onto her back, and listened to
the quietness. Of course, no house was ever completely silent,
especially an old house like this, whose timber bones creaked
and settled with a sound like a ship at sea. The bracket clock
over the fireplace ticked slowly, and after a moment, she
heard the rattle of raindrops on the window-pane – as char
acteristic, instantly recognisable a sound as the clicking of a
dog's nails on a wooden floor, or the sound of a chess-piece
being replaced on the board, or the summer sound of a ball
hitting a cricket bat. Comforting, familiar sounds. Rain at
last – or perhaps it had been raining for some time, but the
wind-noise had been too great to hear it.

And speaking of wind – here it came again, the low
hooning of the body of it against the walls, and the high
whine of it over the lightning-rod which was on the chapel roof not far above her window. Yes, she thought, now you
couldn't hear the rain any more. She sighed and turned back
onto her side to sleep again, and James stirred at the same
moment, half-waking and turning towards her.

And then the wind rose suddenly, wildly, its voice climbing
to a demented shriek, startling her so that she clutched at
James, waking him fully.

‘
What is it?' he muttered. The wind howled and battered at
the house so that it almost seemed to shake. The elemental
fury was frightening. Héloïse pressed against James. It was only a storm, she told herself; but the screaming of the wind
made it seem horribly purposeful, as though some great,
black being outside were trying to crack open their citadel to
get at them.

And then there was the most tremendous, terrifying crash.
Héloïse cried out.

James sat bolt upright. 'God! What is it?' he cried.
‘James!’

It was like an earthquake. It was a huge, shattering crash,
followed by a prolonged rumbling. The floor under them
shook. The bedroom door flew open and crashed back against
the wall, the bed-curtains sucked inwards, there were thuds
and the tinkling of glass as objects fell from surfaces around
the room.

‘
Get out! Get out!' James shouted. 'The house is coming
down.'

‘Dear God, protect us,' Héloïse gasped, struggling with the
bedclothes and the curtains. It was dark – no moon, no stars. Something dreadful had happened beyond their bedchamber,
the wind had got in, the lunatic was in the house, and they
couldn't see. Her babies, she must get to her babies. And
Sophie. Sobbing with fright and frustration, Héloïse managed
to fling off the covers, shoved aside the hampering curtains,
groped instinctively for the candle and the tinder-box, almost
shrieked as James's hand fastened round her wrist.

‘
Put this on,' he said. Her robe was thrust into her hand.
Beyond their room someone screamed and kept on screaming,
not a shriek of pain but a howl of fear. No, it was not quite
dark – through the open door the glimmer from the night-
light in the hallway, miraculously still alight, gave the edge of
things. Thank God, thank God! James in his nightgown was a
pale shape flickering towards the door. Héloïse, still
struggling into her robe, flung herself after him, terrified of
being left alone.

Outside the air was choking with dust, there was something
gritty underfoot, there was too much wind, and a strong,
pungent smell of soot. Had the kitchen chimney caught fire
again? The screamer's screams choked off into a gurgling sob.
Someone shouted something. Sophie was beside her suddenly,
her hand icy on Héloïse's wrist. 'What's happened? Oh
Maman, is the house falling down? Are we going to die?’

Héloïse couldn't answer. There were more voices and
shouting, and someone had a light. It flickered and bounced,
illuminating the strange fog in the air. Down the passage past
the long saloon, there was a knot of people jammed together
where it turned the corner towards the nursery. There was
Miss Rosedale, her face turned towards Héloïse, drawn with
horror.

‘
My boys!' Héloïse cried out. Her feet felt like lead; she
wanted to run but it was as if she were struggling up a steep
hill with the wind pushing her back.

‘
They're all right.' Had Miss Rosedale really said that?
Héloïse couldn't be sure. It was she who had the light — a
chimney-lamp she had always kept by her in case the children
ever wanted her in the night.

‘Rosey?' Héloïse said, tasting soot.

‘The boys are all right.’

Héloïse could hear Sophie's breath sobbing with fright.
There was Father Moineau now, shoving people back from
him, making a space. He turned towards James, his hands
stretched straight out in front of him as though he were
drowning and reaching for a rope. The wind gusted again,
and there was another crash, making several people cry out.
Father Moineau seemed to be trying to speak, but no words would come. His face was white like a clown's, and Héloïse
realised belatedly that it was covered with plaster-dust.

‘
Get everyone downstairs into the hall.' The priest's words
came at last. As James reached him he seized both his hands
so hard that Héloïse saw James wince. Instinctively she thrust
Sophie behind her as she reached them too. She saw James
jolt as though he had been struck by a bolt of electricity, and
at the same moment, looking past the priest, she saw what
James saw, and her mind rejected it.

The North Bedroom — Edward's room — simply wasn't
there any more. The outer wall had gone, and the floor was
splintered and broken as though a giant fist had smashed
through it from below, leaving jagged ends of floor-board
sticking up. The wind was rioting triumphantly through the
room, snatching at the torn ends of wallpaper, and even as
Héloïse took her one, horrified, disbelieving look, a pencil
rolled across what was left of the floor and leapt wildly out
into the darkness.

‘
Get everyone downstairs into the hall. God knows how
much more will come down.’

It was still the same sentence. She had seen it all in the
space of that one sentence. The wind had brought down the
sixty-foot kitchen chimney, ripping away the side of the house
as it went, a horror of violation beyond comprehension.

‘
Does anyone sleep above?' Father Moineau was asking.
‘No,' James said. 'I don't think so.' It was only a storage
attic above Ned's room. Ned —?

‘
We must take a roll call when we get downstairs. But
first —'