The Unquiet House (20 page)

The yew tree was thick with berries. It wasn’t the one nearest to Mire House and Frank was glad of that. He stood underneath it, feeling the soft sliding needles beneath his feet. This yew was near the lych-gate and it felt comfortable and close around him; the branches seemed to be hiding him. He heard the sharp
snick
of metal blades snapping shut.

When he emerged from the tree his mother was smiling and she brushed needles from his shoulders. ‘You ’ave to be careful wi’ yew,’ she said. ‘It’s all poisonous. The flesh of the fruit’s not but the seeds inside them are, and the wood is, and the leaves. They call ’em the death tree.’ She paused, then shook her head. She held up her hands, indicating the gloves she wore. In one hand she held a dark green sprig along with her snippers.

‘What’s it for, Mum?’

She sighed, then shrugged. ‘It’s an owd custom, love. I don’t rightly know where it comes from.’

‘Was it that woman from t’ funeral who told you?’

She gave a startled laugh. ‘Antonia Hollingworth? No. Not ’er, love.’

‘But you know ’er.’

‘I did that. A long time ago, it was, before you was born.’

Frank frowned; it was odd to think that his mother had known people he never had. It made him think she’d had a whole other life he knew nothing about.

‘Now, this yew. It’s supposed to be a nice thing to do, tha’s all. An’ you said you wanted to do a nice thing.’

Frank nodded. He had: he’d said he would like to visit the old man. A part of him had thought that meant he’d have to go back to the house, to face the old place once more – to face whatever lay
in
the house, now – and he had been relieved when his mother suggested cutting the yew. He hadn’t known what she’d meant; it wasn’t something they’d ever done before.

But she hadn’t finished. ‘It’s supposed to be summat that’s right to do after the funeral,’ she said. ‘It’s an evergreen, see – it’s to do wi’ eternal life. And there’s something to do with spirits – or doorways, or something – it makes sure someone’ll help ’im cross, that sort of thing. Help him find the other side, rest in peace or whatever. Me nan told me about it once – it’s a proper old custom. Not many folk’ll ’ave ’eard of it these days. Goes back years and years, long as these trees, prob’ly.’ She smiled. ‘’Appen it means nowt at all. But it’s a way of payin’ your respects.’

Frank didn’t really understand but he put on his own gloves and took the sprig from her fingers.

‘There was druids, see,’ she said. ‘They said the yew tree lived in three worlds: the world above, that’s the branches, and this ’un, and the one below – that’s the roots. Only the yew, see, it can make doors in between.’ She shrugged. ‘I know it sounds daft. But still. They built the chu’ch ’ere for a reason, din’t they?’

She led the way up the path, skirting the church. Frank didn’t know where the old man’s grave was but he wasn’t surprised when they headed up the hill and towards the wall that divided
the churchyard from Mire House. The other yew tree, the one on the border, was ahead of them and he could see its dark crown over his mother’s shoulder. He couldn’t see the bench and he couldn’t see beneath the tree. He wondered who might be sitting there, and he shivered.

His mother huffed her way up the slope and then she stopped and stood aside. ‘Here, love.’

The grave was close to the topmost yew, not far from the bench with its despairing words. The grass covering it looked sparse and criss-crossed with lines as if the ground had recently been chopped into pieces. The headstone looked the same as all the others except that it stood a little straighter and the letters were etched a little cleaner. Frank wondered how long it would take before it greened over with lichen and time. At least, for now, the bench was empty; the dark woman had gone. Maybe she already had whatever it was she wanted. He fingered the sprig of yew and felt those poisonous needles poking through his woollen gloves as he looked up towards the windows of Mire House and he saw the figure that was looking back at him. And he heard the whisper of words on the cold air:

Frank frowned. A dull fear spread through him, making him want to shiver. He had thought he knew what those words meant –
had
known – but now it occurred to him they could mean something else too.

If other folk can’t see that … It’s
their
problem
.

‘What is it, our Frank?’

He turned and for a moment, he couldn’t focus. There was only a dark shape leaning over him, one arm outstretched towards his shoulder. He took a step back and felt the raised mound of the grave under his foot. He stumbled, almost fell.

‘What’s up, lad? What’s got into yer?’

‘Nothing, Mum.’

‘Summat has.’

‘It’s nowt.’ Frank sniffed, realising he was close to tears.

‘Frank?’

‘I saw ’im,’ he said. ‘I saw ’im, Mum, the owd man. He’s up the’er.’ He pointed up at the window. Clouds were scudding across the sun and the glass was mottled and grey; impossible to tell if anyone was watching.

His mother was silent. Everything was still. Then she grabbed hold of his shoulder and shook him, just as she had at the funeral. ‘Now, Frank. I’ll not have any o’ your nonsense. Not now, not ever again. Do you hear?’

‘It’s not nonsense. I
saw
him, after ’e’d gone, only—’

She got hold of his arm once more and Frank looked down at her fingers pressing into his coat. The last time she’d held him that way she’d left red marks on his skin. He wondered if they’d appear again in exactly the same place. She started to pull him away, back down the slope. ‘Mum, no—’

He wanted to tell her that he still had the yew in his pocket, that he hadn’t left it for the old man. But it was no use; it was never any use. She wouldn’t listen to him. It was like before, when he’d tried to tell her about the suit. Some things were for grown-ups and some things were for children, and he should have learned to keep his mouth shut.

He followed at her heels, keeping close so that she didn’t pull too hard. They rounded the corner of the church but instead of heading down towards the lych-gate and home, she led him around the path and up to the church door. She didn’t pause but hauled on the heavy iron ring and the door swung open onto darkness and dust. Her shoes tapped on the stone as if she knew exactly where she was going.

Then she stopped and swung him around. ‘You’re a nasty little liar, Frank.’

He blinked.
Nasty little thief
, he thought, but he didn’t say anything.

She jabbed a finger towards the altar. Her face had gone red. ‘You should ask forgiveness.’

‘But Mum, I
did
see ’im. And before that, I saw a wo—’

The slap, when it came, was hard. Frank stared at her, stunned. It took a moment for his cheek to begin to sting. He didn’t put his hand to it; more shocking even than the movement or the pain or the fact that it was his mother who had inflicted it was the look upon her face. Her breathing was hard and heavy as if she’d been running. What was worse than her fury, though, was the look in her eyes before she’d struck him: it was her
fear
.

‘Mum – I don’t think ’e means us any harm, not really. I don’t think that’s—’

‘Shut up. Shut
up
, Frank.’ She leaned in close and he saw tears welling in her eyes. She pulled away and rubbed at them with her sleeve. Then she caught her breath. ‘You’ll not tell tales,’ she said, ‘not again, you hear? They’re not good tales and I’ll not hear them. Never again.’ She held up her hand when he tried to answer. ‘You’ll make up for it. You’ll ask God’s forgiveness. That’s wha’ you’ll do. An’ then you’ll come straight ’ome
and we’ll ’ave our tea and you’ll say nowt to your dad and nowt to our Mossy, an’ if I ever catch you talkin’ o’ such things ever again –
finished
things, things that are
ower
—’ her eyes narrowed, ‘there’ll be hell to pay for it, our Frank.’

He didn’t dare move and he didn’t dare to look away but then she broke eye contact and walked away from him,
clip-clip-clip
, down the aisle. The door thudded behind her. He just stood there; he wasn’t sure for how long. He only knew that the cold spread up from the stone floor and into his ankles and around his knees and up his back. It went deepest, though, around his arm, where his mother had gripped him so tightly. And then he started to cry.

After a while he stopped. There was no point in crying any longer. No one had come and even if someone had, he wouldn’t want them to see him crying like that.

He realised he was standing by the pew he’d sat in that Sunday, so long ago. He edged into it, shuffling along the seat until he was in the place he’d sat with his mum next to him, and his dad and Mossy. He’d been in trouble then too, though it hadn’t been half so bad as this. Now he felt empty. There was a depth to his mother’s rage he couldn’t fathom; usually her rages made sense. Usually, he could see them coming.

He kicked against the wood, sending echoes up into the shadowy rafters. The altar was a plain white table with a silver cross sitting on it. His mum liked to come and help polish it sometimes. He wondered if that would make her feel better now; probably not.

‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ – they’d sung it that day. He screwed up his face and kicked harder. He’d had a bad thought then too, hadn’t he? The vicar had said something
about endurance and Frank had fleetingly wondered why anyone would
want
to keep faith with God if he only made bad things happen to them. Then he remembered something else and he bent and looked under the pew in front. There it was, the kneeling cushion, still soiled with mud from Matthew James’ boots. He closed his eyes and imagined his mother’s voice saying,
the mucky pup
. His lip twitched; he almost smiled. Then he slipped off his seat and he knelt and started to brush the dried earth from the fabric.

You’ll make up fer it
, his mum had said. Well, maybe he was making up for it, not for lying but for everything else he’d done; for the old man. Maybe this – doing something to help, something with his hands, was better after all. And it was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

He finished cleaning up as best he could and slipped the cushion back under the seat. He actually felt better now, calmer. Ready to go home. He had a feeling his mum wouldn’t say anything about this –
you’ll say nowt
– but she’d let him know he was in trouble all the same, banging his plate down in front of him or giving him the burnt bits for his dinner. He’d know and so would the others, but none of them would say a thing.

He sighed. He felt older somehow, as if he’d learned some important lesson; he just wasn’t sure he knew what it was. He looked up at the altar again before he left. At least he’d tried. He’d tried to make up for whatever it was he had done, even though when he looked up at the church he couldn’t see God, but every time he looked up at the old house the old man was staring back at him.

He shook his head. It was probably another thought he shouldn’t have had, and now he would most likely be late too.
Late for dinner, just the thing to make his mum even angrier.
Or more afraid
, he thought, but he didn’t know why.

He turned to leave the church, a place where his mind only seemed to turn to darker things, to head back home where he belonged. The door banged behind him as if it was glad to see him go. He looked up and saw his mother coming down the path; she had come for him after all, maybe even forgiven him. Then he saw her expression and he knew that she had not.

‘Where’s Mossy?’ she called out. ‘I sent ’im to fetch yer for tea.’

Something cold happened inside him. It started down deep and spread up his spine. And then Frank started to run.

*

Frank ran so hard that his breath burned him and his lungs felt tight. The mire was ahead of him but it was Mossy he saw, his wide-open eyes, his bright grin.

Mossy
. Frank opened his mouth to shout his name and somehow no sound came out and then the bridge was there, but somehow it was
more
than the bridge; it was a border. He could see each flake of rust on the handrail. He staggered to a halt and retched. If he crossed it, he would
know
. There wouldn’t be any room for
perhaps he’s gone up to the fields
, or
to Sam and Jeff’s
. He breathed heavily, leaning on his knees and clutching those thoughts close. Then he let them go. He knew it wasn’t any use hanging onto something that wasn’t real.

He had a vivid image of a flash of colour amid the reeds, those endless reeds, his hand reaching out and seizing on his brother’s coat, and then he couldn’t help it; he was sick onto the grass in a sudden wet spatter. Inside, though, he could hear another sound; the sticky crunch of Mr Owen’s face hitting the walkway.

He straightened. He knew there wasn’t anything else to be done. He couldn’t think where else Mossy might have gone. The woman was real and the boy who was with her and now his brother was with them. He didn’t know how he knew that, but deep down, he
did
. He took a last rasping breath and then he stepped onto the bridge.

Nothing happened. He looked down and something glittered against the concrete: the shine of broken glass.
Revenge
, he thought;
the old man wanted revenge after all
, and then he shook his head –
no
– and he ran again, not stopping this time until he stood among the reeds, and the throb of his heartbeat was replaced by the rustle as he pushed them aside and he saw what it was they held.

His brother was there, but he was different now. There were his face and his hands and his short, soft hair, but his brother had gone just the same, somewhere Frank couldn’t reach, and he couldn’t unsee it; he knew he would never stop seeing it.

He opened his mouth to cry out but it was his own name he heard,
Frank
, and it was his mother’s voice as his knees gave and he fell forward into the marsh and went into the dark, a place where there was nothing and no one at all.