Chapter Seven
SEVEN
It was as good a place as any, and the staff were generally happy – or at least grateful to have the work.
Of course, there was the normal grumbling about ‘upstairs’ – that’s only natural.
Mr Reese spoke down to us as if he thought we were all ignoramuses, and his wife seemed to invent chores just for the joy of it.
Old Mrs Reese could be a right cow, too, when she had the mind for it.
She had this habit of marching around like a general with her walking cane, bashing it against anything that displeased her – whether that was a poorly scrubbed floor tile, a wilting begonia, or the legs of an unfortunate housemaid.
In private, Dad used to do a good impression of her using the garden rake, sucking in his cheeks and walking with her crabbed, close-footed gait.
These were only harmless antics, the likes of which you’d find in fine houses up and down the country.
But little Kenneth was a different matter; I adored that boy.
He looked a real cherub, with this lovely head of curly hair and cheeks so round that his face was almost wider than it was tall, and he had the sunniest disposition you could imagine.
Yet his parents never seemed to want to spend any time with him.
I could never understand it! It made me wonder sometimes if they had any hearts at all.
This meant that he’d often come out into the garden to play, and I occasionally abandoned my work to entertain him, playing horsey or chasing him round with a tatty glove that I used for a puppet.
He could never manage my first name – shortened it, in that way children will, to one syllable.
I can still hear his sweet voice, demanding, ‘Chase, Vee, chase!’ I still have dreams about that Penarth townhouse.
The sweet-smelling honeysuckle by the garden gate.
Speckle-bellied starlings preening in the birdbath.
A sea breeze whipping salty through my hair.
Kenneth’s laughter as he ran. The shushing of the surf.
But all the while, a dark shadow over it, a clenching dread in my throat.
A storm is coming. And I realize I’m in the store-shed. And there’s something in my hands.
Somewhere now, the sound of water. A burbling – glugging, sucking, almost tidal, like the lapping of waves down Tiger Bay.
I wake to it. Think at first I must still be dreaming.
But as I stare at the square of paler night where my bedroom window is, feel the scratch of sheets around me, my stale mouth, my heavy bladder, I know I’m not.
Fighting muddled thoughts, I slip out of bed and jab around with my feet till I find my slippers.
Light the candle at my bedside. Go over to the window and pull back the curtain.
It’s too dark to see anything beyond it, just my own face reflected back, a gentle yellow in the glow of the flame.
See also the rivulets rushing down the other side of the glass.
A heavy rainstorm with howling wind, the lash of drops, the patter of it on the roof.
But this isn’t the sound I was hearing. The bubbling, lapping noise comes from downstairs.
On to the landing. Louder now. Hazed outlines of furniture come into view as I descend.
At the bottom of the staircase, the gurgling fills my ears, and as I reach the final few steps, I put my foot down into a shock of water.
With rising panic, I hold the candle overhead and squint as it reflects back from places it shouldn’t.
A good half-foot of water is carpeting the floor, licking at the table legs, the sofa, the walls.
Wellies over by there, bobbing at the front door, uselessly out of reach.
Gritting myself for the unpleasantness of what’s coming next, I push forward.
The water’s so cold it’s not like stepping into water; it’s like having my feet instantly removed. All sensation leached in a moment.
Don’t panic, I tell myself. Deep breath. I need to wake Tom. Need to grab my wellies first, for the walk across the garden. They may already be wet, but they’ll still be better than going barefoot. I make my way to where I last saw them, using the wall for a guide.
An object bumps against my shin, and I stoop down to touch it.
Rubber. I pick up the boot, then feel about for its twin.
One-handed with the candle, it’s a struggle to tell which is left or right.
I jam my feet in at random. The wrong way around.
Well, no time to struggle with swapping them over now.
My raincoat is easier to find, still hanging on the stand by the front door.
I pull it on over my nightclothes. Manage to locate the electric torch in the kitchen drawer, although, once I can see the churn of water by its brighter light, I almost wish I hadn’t.
Hesitate for a moment, then take Arabella’s needlepoint from the drawer as well and tuck it into my pocket.
Outside, the lower lawn has become a second lake.
The wind threatens to bowl me over as I splash through the flood.
The rain continues, driving almost sideways, stinging nettle-like at my bare face and hands.
Its noise, too, is ungodly: the shriek and howl, terrifying groans from the trees, a hammering of water against earth.
Every step is a battle, and the manor seems further away than it ever has.
I can’t look up to check my progress: a single tilt of the head wins me an eyeful of water.
My nose is streaming – too numb to feel it at first, but then I taste the salt on my lips.
But as I climb the gradient of the lawn, the ground underfoot goes from completely submerged to a shallow puddle, then simply boggy.
When I reach the front wall of the manor, the sturdy stone feels like an anchor – no, like a harbour wall.
I consider heading round the back of the house to the Allens’ quarters. Then I ring at the front door instead.
It takes a number of tries before the hall window finally illuminates, dazzling my eyes so I have to cover them. I have an arm still held in front of my face as Tom finally opens the door.
‘Vee?’
When I try to speak, I realize my teeth have been chattering together the whole time. My syllables come out with a percussive accompaniment: ‘It’s all bloody flooded.’
Tom digests this swiftly, the only sign of alarm a gentle, ‘Blimey.’ He’s in his nightshirt, blue-and-white striped flannel.
Felt slippers on his feet. He opens the door further.
‘Get inside, come on. Let me fetch a torch and I’ll take a look.
’ His reassuring calm makes me feel almost as if his ‘taking a look’ will be enough to solve the problem.
I wait for him on the hall rug, watching a puddle spread around me and trying to stop shivering. The stupid stuffed monkey grins at me as if it finds the whole situation hilarious. ‘You can shut it, you can,’ I say. Talking to a dead monkey. Must be tired.
Tom re-emerges from the corridor, now wearing his own raincoat and wellies. Wielding a heavy electric torch. ‘Come on, then,’ he says gruffly.
With Tom’s more powerful light, the lawn’s now visible – or, rather, the swamp where the lawn used to be. I was lucky to have made it across without slipping over and falling face-first into the muddy churn.
‘Blimey,’ says Tom again.
About twenty feet behind the cottage, where the paddock’s supposed to be, a torrent of water rushes past. As we watch, it rips a fresh clod of earth from its bank and gobbles it up. Like a beast feasting on its surroundings. ‘Fucking hell!’ I say.
Tom looks perplexed. ‘The stream’s burst its banks before, but never so bad as this.’
We splash over to the front door, left ajar in my rushed exit. An assortment of my smaller possessions have escaped: more boots bobbing around the lawn. It finally hits that my home is flooded, that there’s nothing I can do about it. A lump in my throat, hard and choking. ‘What do we do?’ I ask.
‘Wait for it to stop,’ says Tom. ‘You can sleep in the manor tonight … though the upstairs servants’ quarters have been shut off for so long, I don’t reckon they’re safe for use.
I’ll have to make up a bed for you in the kitchen.
Just for tonight – we’ll find something better tomorrow if you can’t go back in the cottage. ’
Inside the manor again, I shed my raincoat and wellies, let Tom put them out in the porch. The neck and hem of my nightgown are soaked through, my bare feet grubby with circles of black-green dirt under the toenails.
‘You’ll want to dry off,’ says Tom. ‘I’ll wake Nora.’
‘Oh no,’ I hurry to say, ‘please don’t. I don’t want to be any trouble.’
‘Well …’ says Tom.
‘I’ll be fine. Honest.’
‘But you’ll be needing dry clothes to wear to sleep,’ says Tom. Then, seeing my fearful expression, ‘All right, I’ll find you something of mine for the time being. I can’t imagine Nora’s clothes would fit you anyway.’
A sudden creak from overhead. We both freeze as a pair of pale legs appear at the top of the stairs. A white cotton nightdress, ratty at the hem. Then Arabella in full sight. ‘Is that Vee?’ Her face is pinched with confusion.
It’s been a few weeks since the incident with the Renault.
Since then, Arabella has seemed more jumpy than usual: flinching at loud noises, complaining that the view of the church tower is giving her headaches.
There’s been no further talk of curses since that day, but still I can’t help feeling since our conversation that a change has happened between us.
In letting me see her vulnerability, Arabella has invited me into something private.
And without really knowing it, I’ve accepted the invitation.
‘Sorry to wake you, my Lady,’ says Tom. ‘There’s been a flood.’