Silent - A Familiar House?

Two Years Ago, Lucy

She went down to talk to the B & B owners who'd just finished dealing with the burning dustbin. Arthur arrived a few minutes later and settled the bill.  

'Come on, you're spending a few nights at mine,' he said.

'Were they suspicious?' she asked on the way to his car.

'They were certainly a bit puzzled, but fortunately, they didn't make the connection between the fire round the back and my decision to put you up at mine for a few days. They would probably suspect bored local teenagers of starting that fire. And that might well have been the case. Having said that, we can't ignore that note.'

'And Steve's definitely in Scotland?'

'Yes, Lucy. He's going to be there for a while.'

He drove her to his cottage roughly seven miles away; a thatched-roof cottage with tiny rooms on different levels, a quant dwelling from black and white period drama. They didn't say much during the drive, even after the quarrel on Monday afternoon concerning her visit to his former daughter-in-law Katie Whittaker.  It was getting late, Arthur insisted by the front door. They could discuss everything tomorrow.

'Have I been here before?' she said, in the entrance passage of the cottage. The copper plates on the wall seemed familiar.

Arthur nodded. 'You used to come over for Sunday lunch when my Lily was alive. When your dad wasn't busy with the quartet, that was.'

'Strange.'  She had no recollections of the Sunday lunches at the cottage, but she remembered an upright walnut piano near an old coal fire, imitation style. The piano was still there, in the front sitting room, Bach Two- and Three- Part Inventions on the music rack, dusty and faded.

She continued looking around the tiny living room. The open fireplace with a gate and a guard. A stack of shelves for books, one shelf piled upon the next due to lack of space. She remembered those too.  But not the regular Sunday lunches.  She noticed a wooden door leading to an adjoining dining area, a step leading down to another level. A wooden door, the shade of sawdust. Sawdust. A gigantic bowl of mixing. A food mixer. A blender.

Arthur was right. She'd visited here before. In fact, she'd even stayed the night.  Once, twice.

'You've gone very pale, Lucy,' she heard Arthur saying. 'What's the matter?'

'It's nothing,' she said. 'I'm tired.'

'And hungry too, I should imagine.'

'A bit,' she said, clammy and light-headed.

''I'm going to order some takeaway. Make yourself at home. Supper shouldn't be long.'

She followed Arthur to the kitchen to study the menu. After selecting her choice and relaying it back to Arthur, she went back to the sitting room as if drawn there by an invisible force, a further tug of memory. The china set on the Welsh Dresser.  Sherry glasses. Little Lily Harlesden, Arthur's late wife, drinking sherry on a Sunday morning.

Another fleeting memory. It disappeared almost immediately. She felt dizzy again. Blackening at the edges of her vision. She leaned against the wall and waited for her vision to settle.

Mum had brought her here, not Dad. Dad couldn't have cared less. Dad must have been too ashamed to show his face in this cottage.

After taking a few deep breaths, she went to look at the photographs in the lounge area. Photos of Arthur and Lily. Photos of Terence and the three boys – but none of Terence's ex-wife, Katie. Sepia-worn photos of people from another age. In one of the black and white photographs, two teenage boys in football gear stood on a playing field near a cotton mill, shoulder-to-shoulder, flashing grins at the camera.

'That's me and your grandfather when we were both sixteen,' Arthur said, startling her. Had he just stood watching her?  'I'm on the right, your grandfather's on the left.'

'Right.'

'Those were the days,' Arthur went on. 'How I miss him, Ernest, your grandfather. Such a fine man, a wonderful friend. He died at a very young age. A tragedy.'  

She put the photo down. 'What was he like?'

'How do you mean?'

'Dad never spoke about him.'

'No, you father wouldn't have done.'

'Why?'

'There were reasons.'

'What reasons?'

Arthur shook his head. 'I shouldn't say. No, it isn't right.'

'Please tell me. He was my grandfather.'

'I don't know.' Arthur sighed. 'You see, sometimes the past is better left alone. It can't benefit anyone.'

'I don't understand.'

'It's better you don't. Maybe when you're older.'

'Please tell me, Arthur.'

'Well,' he said. 'Your grandfather Ernest Harlesden suffered tremendously, so deeply.'

'How did Ernest Harlesden suffer tremendously? What happened to him?'

'It would be wrong of me to say.'

'I'd like to know. He was my grandfather and I never met him. I don't know anything about him.'

'Ah well. Your grandfather, he was an enigma. Perfect in every way. He was terribly handsome.  And not only that. He was highly intelligent and popular, ever so popular.   A fine sportsman too. A talented jazz pianist. The ladies loved him, and he them.'

'So what happened?'

'Well,' Arthur said, and sighed. 'Generally, when a person is too perfect, like Ernest Harlesden, they suffer in other ways. Your grandfather, I'm sorry to say, paid a heavy price for his beauty and perfection.  Don't you see?  He was a tormented soul, well and truly. He knew such deep despair and sorrow, often bordering on madness. Insanity even. I would say, in fact, that your grandfather was...no, no, that's enough.  No more. Your grandfather's suffering has no bearing on the present situation, none whatsoever. Now, come and sit in the kitchen, Lucy. It's chilly in here and I don't want you catching cold.'  At that, Arthur turned abruptly and went back to the kitchen.  

The doorbell rang a few minutes later.  The food had arrived. She and Arthur ate in silence mostly, although she answered his questions about her studies and what she hoped to do at Uni. Either languages or Multi-Media.

'Are you all right?'

'I'm worried,' she admitted.

'Yes, I know you are,' Arthur said.

'It was a fire.'

'Yes, I know. I'm sure it was just a bored teenager getting up to no-good.'

'I'm not so sure. The note…'

'Listen, you're safe here.  We'll talk tomorrow and decide where to go from this point.'

'Do you think the person could have followed me here?'

'I doubt it. But you have nothing to worry about here. We have a strong Neighbourhood Watch in this vicinity.  Any suspicious activity would be reported immediately.'

'Righteo,' he said, shortly after eleven. 'I'm going to have an early night. There's a television in your room if you want to watch a film. Or maybe you'd prefer to listen to the radio.'  

She spent the night in the spare bedroom with the radio set to a low volume, unable to sleep. Reaching for the pillow, she pressed the cool fabric against her face. For more than half an hour, an hour perhaps, she remained like this, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, trying to calm her thoughts.  Something terrible was going to happen again, and soon.

Another fire, more deaths.

She could already smell the smoke and hear the flames crackling, spitting.  The heat. Hotter, hotter and hotter. Burning. Singeing hair and melting flesh.  Hotter still. Dense smoke, like a dusty cloud, choking her, like the other fire ten years ago. And then over, finished. Smouldering ash blowing about in the breeze.
She must return to Lyme House and prevent the tragedy from happening.  

She would go back tomorrow, quietly, secretly.

The decision made, she fell asleep, waking once in the night when she thought she heard voices on the landing.  Muffled voices that quickly faded to whispers before disappearing into silence once more.