House of Echoes. Barbara Erskine
It no longer seemed to be the silence of emptiness; it was a listening, enquiring silence.
‘Mummy, look.’ Tom tugged at her sweater. ‘Flutterby!’ A ragged peacock butterfly, woken by the heat of the sun on the glass was fluttering feebly against the window, its wings shushing faintly, shedding red-blue dust.
‘Poor thing, it’s trapped.’ Joss looked at it sadly. To let it go out into the cold would mean certain death.
The laughter came from the other end of the attic this time; pealing, joyous, followed again by the sound of feet. Tom laughed. ‘See boys,’ he cried. ‘Me wants to see boys.’
‘Mummy wants to see boys too,’ Joss agreed. She stooped and picked him up, abandoning the butterfly as she pulled open the door which separated this room from the next. ‘They shouldn’t be here. We’re going to have to tell them to go home for their lunch –’ She broke off. The next room, larger than the rest, was the last. Beyond it, out of the high windows she could look down on the stableyard, seeing the doors pulled wide where Luke was standing in the coach house entrance talking to a strange man. Joss swung round. ‘Where have those naughty boys gone?’
‘Naughty boys gone.’ Tom echoed sadly. He too was staring round, tears welling in his eyes. This was where the sound of the children had come from without a doubt, but the room was empty even of the clutter which had stood in some of the others. The boards, sloping with age, were dusty. They showed no foot marks.
‘Tom, I think we’ll go downstairs.’ She was uneasy. ‘Let’s go and make Daddy his coffee, then you can go and call him for me.’ She backed towards the door. Suddenly she didn’t want to meet these hidden children after all.
The morning of their first informal supper party three days later Luke pulled open the cellar door and switched on the lights. Tom was asleep upstairs when he had dragged Joss away from her polishing. ‘Let’s have a real look at that wine. We’ll see if we can find something decent to drink tonight.’
Running down the creaking staircase ahead of her he stared round. The cellar was cold and smelled strongly of damp. A preliminary glance a few days earlier had to their excitement told them the cellar contained a great deal of wine; racks of bottles, bins and cases stretched away into the darkness of a second cellar beyond the first. ‘Joss?’ He turned and looked for her.
Joss was standing at the top of the stairs.
‘Joss, come on. Help me choose.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Luke. No.’ She took a step backwards. She couldn’t explain her sudden revulsion. ‘I’ll go and put on the coffee or something.’
He stared up at the doorway. ‘Joss? What’s wrong?’ But she had gone. He shrugged. Turning he stood in front of the first wine rack and stared at it. Joss’s father had obviously had a good eye. He recognised some of the vintages, but this would need an expert to look at it one day. Perhaps David Tregarron would advise him when he came down to see them. David’s passion for wine, even greater than his love of history had been legendary in Joss’s staff room. Luke shivered. It was cold down here – good for the wine of course, but not for people. Reaching out towards the rack he stopped suddenly and turning looked behind him. He thought he had heard something in the corner of the cellar out of sight behind the racks. He listened, his eyes searching the shadows where the light from the single strip light failed to reach. There was no other sound.
Uncomfortably he moved slightly. ‘Joss? Are you still up there?’ His voice sounded very hollow. There was no reply.
He turned back to the wine rack, trying to concentrate on the bottles, but in spite of himself he was listening, glancing towards the darker corners. Grabbing two bottles at last, more or less at random, he looked round with a shiver and then turning for the stairs, raced up them two at a time. Slamming the cellar door behind him he turned the key with relief. Then he laughed out loud. ‘Clot! What did you think was down there!’ By the time he had reached the kitchen and put the bottles on the table he had recovered himself completely.
Roy and Janet Goodyear and the Fairchilds arrived together for their first dinner party at exactly eight o’clock, trooping in through the back door and standing staring round in the kitchen with evident delight.
‘Well, you’ve certainly made a fine job of everything,’ Roy Goodyear commented thoughtfully when they had all returned to the kitchen after a tour of the house. ‘It all looks so nice and lived in, now.’ Joss followed his gaze. It did look good. Their china and glass unpacked, the dresser decorated with pretty plates and flowers, the long table laid and the range warming the room to a satisfactory glow. Luke had strung their Christmas cards from the bell wires and a huge bunch of mistletoe hung over the door out into the pantry.
‘I’m sorry we’re eating in the kitchen.’ Joss filled up Janet’s glass.
‘My dear, we wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. You’ve got it really lovely and cosy here.’ Sally Fairchild had seated herself at the table, her elbows spread amongst the knives and forks. Joss could see her gaze going now and then to the corn dolly which Luke had suspended from a length of fishing twine over the table.
‘I expect the Duncans were very formal when they lived here.’ Luke lifted the heavy casserole from the oven and carried it to the table. ‘Sit down, Roy. And you, Alan.’
‘They were when Philip was alive.’ Roy Goodyear levered his heavy frame into a chair next to his wife. In his late fifties he was taller by a head than Janet, his face weather-beaten to the colour of raw steak, his eyes a strangely light amber under the bushy grey brows. ‘Your father was a very formal man, Joss.’ Both couples now knew the full story of Joss’s parentage. ‘But in the sixties people from his background still did observe all the formalities. They wouldn’t have known anything else. They kept a staff here of course. Cook and housemaid and two gardeners. When we came to dinner here we always dressed. Philip had a magnificent cellar.’ He cocked an eye at Luke. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that it’s still there.’
‘It is, as a matter of fact.’ He glanced at Joss. He had not mentioned his hasty exit from the cellar to her, nor asked her why she had refused to go down there with him. ‘We’ve got a friend in London – Joss’s ex boss, in fact – who is a bit of a wine buff. I thought we might ask him to come down and have a look at it.’
Roy had already glanced at the bottle and nodded contentedly. ‘Well, if he needs any help or encouragement, don’t forget your neighbours across the fields, I would very much like to see what you’ve got.’
‘Apart from the ghost, of course,’ Janet put in quietly.
There was a moment’s silence. Joss glanced at her sharply. ‘I suppose there had to be a ghost.’
‘And not just any old ghost either. The village say it is the devil himself who lives here.’ Alan Fairchild raised his glass and squinted through it critically. ‘Isn’t that right, Janet? You are the expert on these matters.’ He grinned broadly. Silent until now he was obviously enjoying the sensation his words had caused.
‘Alan!’ Sally Fairchild blushed pink in the candlelight. ‘I told you not to say anything about all that. These poor people! They’ve got to live here.’
‘Well, if he lives in the cellar, I didn’t see him.’ With a glance at Joss Luke lifted the lid off the casserole for her and handed her the serving ladle, his face veiled in fragrant steam.
Joss was frowning. ‘If we’re sharing the house, I’d like to know who with,’ she said. She smiled at Alan. ‘Come on. Spill the beans. Who else lives here? I know we have visits from time to time by village children. I’d quite like that to stop. I don’t know how they get in.’
‘Kids are the end these days.’ Janet reached for a piece of bread. ‘No discipline at all. It shouldn’t surprise me if they do come here because the house has been empty for so long, but with the legend –’ she paused. ‘I’d have thought they’d be too scared.’
‘The