The Unquiet House (16 page)

Owens led him to the same room Frank had been in before. He went to the dresser and pulled open the deep bottom drawer. It scraped as if the base was sagging and he took out a photograph album. Frank’s curiosity overcame his reluctance and when Owens opened it, he leaned in.

The pictures looked old. They were held in with little corners so dry they popped off the page as Owens turned them. He stopped when he reached the image of a young man and a young woman. It couldn’t possibly be Mr Owens, not only because he was younger and thinner, but because he was smiling. It was such a happy smile. The girl was shy-looking and had curling hair that Frank thought was golden but couldn’t really tell because it was partially covered by a white veil, and anyway, there was no colour in the picture.

‘Tha’s her.’ His voice held pride in it, and something else that was warmer, and it held sadness too. ‘That who yer saw, was it?’

Frank shook his head.

‘No. She’s not like tha’, is she? Bright, she was. Golden. She med me – she med me smile, and she med me laugh. She wor a good woman, our Lizzie.’ His eyes misted, then seemed to darken. ‘Tha’ other – that in’t ’er, lad. I dunno wha’s up wi’ ’er, but I wun’t go near, not me. She seems – she dun’t seem—’

‘Nice,’ Frank finished for him. ‘She dun’t seem nice.’ He felt Mr Owen’s hand on his shoulder; it made him jump.

‘No, lad, you’ve ’it it there. She dun’t seem nice.’

Frank thought of all the ways he could expand on what he’d said.
Dark
, he thought.
Mean
. But none of it was quite right.
He wasn’t sure he could sum her up in words, the woman under the yew tree. It wasn’t just the way she looked, but the
feeling
she gave him. He looked instead at the picture. The woman there
did
look nice. She was pretty. He put out a finger as if to touch her and drew it back. ‘It’s a shame,’ he said. ‘If yer goin’ ter –
see
someone, y’ know, who in’t really there – that it should be ’
er
, and not—’

‘Aye, well, a lot o’ things in’t fair. I ’ave to look at that there bairn all t’ time an’ all, don’t I. Just as if—’ he drew in a long breath, ‘as if I did summat wrong. We never had children, see, an’ seeing that ’un, runnin round t’ ’ouse – it’s like looking at what we never ’ad, ’er and me. The ghost of some sort o’ life we should ’ave lived.’

Frank found he couldn’t look at him. He just stayed there, leaning over and staring down at the photograph. It sounded a little bit as if the old man was crying. Frank wasn’t sure what he even thought about that, let alone what he would say. And then he let out a little cry and he
did
reach out, touching the surface of the photograph. He had seen the suit that the man in the picture was wearing. It was a three-piece, black, and with three buttons down the front. Frank turned and looked, not at Mr Owens’ face, but at the buttons on his waistcoat. The buttons were straining at the holes, but other than that it was just the same.

‘Aye, lad. Same suit.’

‘But – but why?’ Frank turned and looked at the cupboard set into the corner. He knew there was another suit in there. It had looked cleaner and newer than this one, and it certainly didn’t smell as bad. ‘Why don’t yer wear that other one?’

Mr Owens tilted his head. ‘Now, lad, it’s not polite ter—’

‘I know. Sorry. But why? That ’un looks knackered.’

Mr Owens gave a wry smile. Then he chuckled. ‘This ’ere’s me wedding suit, lad. It’s the suit I wed ’er in and the suit I buried ’er in an’ it’s the suit I should ha’ worn to our bairn’s christening, if we’d been blessed. An’ it’ll be the suit they carry me off in when I’m done, an’ all.’

‘But—’

‘Numore, lad, I teld yer. This ’ere’s me best suit, even if it dun’t look like it. Value in’t just in’t eye o’ the beholder, tha knows. That’s summat our Lizzie always said. Her sisters said she married down, right hoity-toity they was, but she always said you can’t judge owt by its wrapping. Anyway, if I was fussed about all that I’d go about flashin’ my watch-chain and spouting nonsense all ower, like t’other folk do. No: this ’ere’s me best, an’ if t’other folk can’t see that it’s their problem.’

He stared down at the floor. Frank didn’t know where to look. He’d come here feeling all grown-up, doing a kindness for the old man, and now he’d put himself right back where he’d started, a naughty child who was in the doghouse.

‘Now – ne’er you mind me, lad. I’m just grumpy, I ’spose. It’s just, like I said – value in’t in the eye o’ the beholder.’

‘Aye. Well, I’d best get on ’ome.’

‘Course yer did. Yer mum’ll be missin’ yer.’

Frank pulled a face.

‘Summat up?’

‘Not really. She – I were in trouble. Just stuff.’

‘Well, boys will be boys, I ’spose. Anyroad, it were right nice o’ yer to come.’

Frank looked up.

‘Tha can come again, if yer want.’ Mr Owens held out his hand, and Frank stared at it. It took him a moment to realise he was supposed to shake. He put out his own hand and shook solemnly.

‘Now, lad. I’d best get yer that plate, ’adn’t I, before yer go.’

The schoolyard was grey under the grey sky, hemmed in by grey walls. Frank was grateful that Mossy wasn’t around; he was still at little school. He was in no mood to have one of the ‘young ’uns’ trailing after him. During the week Sam preferred the company of the older boys and he was nowhere in sight. There was only a bunch of girls, busy skipping with a piece of elastic; one had a hula-hoop but she couldn’t keep it around her waist. Frank didn’t feel like going to find Sam. He wasn’t sure he wanted company; something about Mire House – the
feel
of it, the stale air maybe – seemed to have clung to him. He still had a sense of its sadness, as if it had folded itself around him and wouldn’t let go. He thought of the woman he thought he’d seen in the garden, the way he’d worried about her reaching out and touching him –
If she grabs a hold of you, you’re dead
– and he shivered.

Frank sauntered around the corner, leaned against the side of the building and closed his eyes.
Grey
, he thought. As if in answer he felt the first warm drop of rain splatter his cheek. When he opened his eyes, Sam was standing in front of him after all. Frank glanced up into the sky. He was no longer sure it was raining; he wasn’t sure where the moisture on his cheek had come from.

There was a smacking noise as Sam let the ball in his hands drop to the paving and caught it again. ‘Ey up,’ he said. ‘You’re t’ keeper.’

Sam, telling him what to do. Sam acting like the leader, just because he was the eldest. Sam, running away up the lane at the first sign of any trouble, dumping his friends because he was chicken.
Buk-buk …

‘I’m not playing,’ Frank said.

‘Yes, you are.’

‘Am not.’

Sam’s eyes narrowed and suddenly Frank knew that he was thinking of it, too: the way he’d run away. The way that Frank had
seen
him run.

‘You’ll do as I say.’

Frank stared at him. He didn’t pull a face and he didn’t glare and it took a long time, but eventually it was Sam who looked away. Frank pushed himself off the wall. ‘Come on then,’ he said. He stripped off the jumper his mum had knitted and he didn’t look at the others as he went, just dropped it on top of someone’s blazer in the heap that marked the goalposts. In some corner of his mind he registered that there was no one from his year playing, it was all the bigger lads, and none of them looked very friendly. He wasn’t sure why they’d asked him to join in.

He sniffed and looked towards the school entrance. Today the teachers on duty were Miss ‘Hennie’ Henshaw and Miss ‘Skeleton’ Scales and they were standing by the door but they weren’t watching the pupils. They were having a right good natter, as his mum would have put it. Miss Scales’ fingers were twitching as if she wanted a cigarette.

‘Watch it,’ Harry Alsop shouted as he came in close, but he didn’t try to score; instead he collided with Sam, knocking him towards Frank so that he had to jump out of their way. Sam called out ‘My turn,’ and he took a half-hearted kick at the ball – he missed by a mile – and then he ran straight between the posts, into Frank, sending him staggering.

‘
Sorree
,’ he said, but his tone of voice didn’t say he was sorry. It said something else altogether.

Frank straightened his T-shirt as he took his place again.

‘Now you.’ Sam nodded towards Thomas Furlow, who smirked and nodded and placed the ball on the floor, right in front of the goal. He backed away – it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t the rules – and booted it straight towards Frank. He tried to catch it, but it flew through his hands and thwacked into his chest.

‘
Shot
,’ someone else said admiringly, and Sam rushed in, curling his hand into a fist, and he rubbed it against Frank’s hair. It pulled, the knucklebones hard against his scalp, and he felt his eyes begin to water. He blinked them furiously.

Sam started lining up the ball again. Frank didn’t like the look on his face. He knew it was revenge. Sam had worked out that Frank thought he was a coward and he couldn’t bear it. Now he was going to take it out on him. But Frank didn’t have to put up with it. He walked off to the side and grabbed his jumper, shaking it out straight. He muttered, ‘I’m off,’ from the corner of his mouth and headed away, trying to act casual, knowing it wasn’t quite working. He heard rapid footsteps on the tarmac and then Sam’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him into the wall.

‘Yer’ll do as yer told.’ Sam’s face was up close, his eyes narrowed.

‘I’ll not.’ Frank’s voice was quiet. ‘I know what’s up with yer.’

‘You little—’

‘I’m not playin’. I told yer.’

A whistle cut into the day. It wasn’t a teacher’s whistle, but they looked around and saw Harry shaking his head, then gesturing towards the entrance. Miss Henshaw and Miss Scales weren’t talking any longer; they were peering at them through the throng of children.

‘Later,’ Sam said. ‘You’ve ’ad it.’

He turned and sauntered away, whistling himself now, the tune to
We are the Champions
, a programme Frank had never liked and didn’t watch.

Frank sat back on his bed, trying to read his
Hotspur
comic. He had read it already, more than once, but now nothing he looked at made any sense. He had seen Sam again on the bus home and he’d expected him to knock into him or say something mean, but he hadn’t; he’d only given him a knowing look.

When he’d got home Mossy had started prattling on about some picture he’d painted and he’d just thrown down his bag and gone upstairs. Soon he’d get called down for tea. Dad would come in and after that they might go out again together to check the fencing or take some of the machinery apart and clean it and put it back together again. Sure enough, through the floorboards, he heard the rattle of the door. Still his mother’s voice didn’t come and after a while he went and opened the window and leaned out. It was cool out there, the air fresh against his cheek. He could see the church spire and beyond that, the house. Everything had changed since he first set foot on the driveway. Now he wished he’d never done it, even though Mr Owens hadn’t turned out so bad.
Tha can come again, if yer want
, he’d said, but Frank wasn’t really sure he did want to. Before all that, he’d had friends; not many, not around here, but enough. Now they weren’t his friends any longer.

He drew a sigh. There was no point crying over spilt milk, as Mum would say. She’d tell him to
gerron wi’ it
, not sit here moping. Maybe she was right.

He walked downstairs and he heard her voice even before he went into the kitchen. ‘Thought you must ’ave ’omework?’

‘Eh?’

‘ “Pardon”, not “eh”. ’Ave you done it, then? You might just catch ’em if so.’

‘You what, Mum?’

‘T’ others. They’re out lakin’.’

Frank frowned. ‘Where’s Mossy?’

‘You can’t expect ’im to stay in, just cos you are. He’s out wi’ Jeff. Sam said ’e’d keep an eye on them. A good lad, that.’

‘Where’d they go?’

‘Not far, unless they want a good hiding. Now, what are you—?’

But Frank didn’t wait, he headed straight for the door and before she could stop him he started running across the yard.

The others weren’t in the yard. They probably weren’t even on the farm. Mire House was what he thought of first; it would be just like Sam to get Mossy into trouble, to get back at him. He ran into the lane, which was empty as the yard had been, and down past the church. He glanced in as he passed and the graveyard looked empty too, the colours a little too rich, as if it was about to rain.

He slowed when he reached the house. He almost expected to see Mr Owens standing in the garden with his big stick, ready to ward the others off, but there was no trace of him. There wasn’t even a light shining in a window, although the day was
starting to fade, the sun turning a deeper gold. It didn’t
feel
as if they were there.

There was somewhere else, though; the place they weren’t supposed to go. He could see immediately how that would have appealed to Sam. He wouldn’t have taken Mossy to his house – their mum was worse than his at keeping an eye on them.
You’ve ’ad it
, he’d said. No, the mire would be more suited to whatever Sam had in mind. Frank thought of Mossy’s open smile, the way he trusted people, and anger rose within him. He hurried past Mire House and onto the path that led to the river. He didn’t look back; he started to run.

He saw Jeff first. He was sitting on the bridge that crossed the worst of the mire, dangling his legs over the long grass. Sam wasn’t there and he couldn’t see Mossy, but then he noticed a dark shape standing beyond the bridge. He crossed it, ignoring Jeff. His legs felt at once cold and hot from running. His corduroys were covered with the gossamer of seed heads or cobwebs.

When he reached the broad bank of the river, there was nothing but the green and pale yellow of long grasses; and then he realised that Sam was there, standing off to one side. He was alone. His hands were on his hips and his lip was curled.