Elaine Dimbylow
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The track is already carpeted with coloured leaves, the canopy of trees overhead thinning, revealing the lace of the branches. She forces herself to go on towards the house. One foot in front of the other. Eyes focussed on the ground. But she knows when she has come to the final bend before the yard.
She cannot do this; she hasn’t the strength.
Yet somehow she opens the gate and runs across the yard to the porch. It is empty. There are no wellingtons caked with mud, no waterproofs on the pegs, no baskets of vegetables or leggy plants in pots. The floor is clean, barren. Her hands shake as she fits the key into the lock and lets herself into the kitchen.
At first she stands still, feeling the emptiness. It soaks into her pores, like water through rock, until she cannot bear the weight of it and slumps on to the nearest chair. She rests her elbows on the table. The silence rushes in her ears. She had expected to find some trace of them here – not ghosts exactly – but something of them left behind. Only there is nothing. Just the chill of the stone.
“Pull yourself together, Louisa. Get on with what you have to do.” She realises she has spoken aloud.
Taking off her jacket, she sees that the kitchen is tidy, free of dust, and there are flowers in a vase on the dresser. Yellow chrysanthemums. From Harriet Slater? Or Susan?
Her instinct is to throw them out but they brighten the room. She opens the cupboards and finds everything where it should be – cups, saucers, cutlery, pots and pans. The fridge has been switched off and cleaned. The shelves in the pantry are bare but there is tea and sugar and a bottle of milk.
She opens the door into the hall and the sombre ticking of the grandfather clock startles her. One by one she checks the rooms. Each is spotless, smelling of furniture polish. All the wardrobes are empty except for the wooden coat hangers dangling from the rails. The beds have been stripped, the bedclothes washed and ironed and put into the airing cupboard. It is all heartbreakingly sterile.
On the landing she takes a small key from its hiding place above the doorframe and unlocks the spare room. It is stacked high with cardboard boxes. There are suitcases too and her mother’s old treadle sewing machine. A layer of dust covers the floor. The air smells musty. She wishes now she had asked for help. Chloe would have come with her.
A door slams downstairs. She has left the house unlocked. Leaning over the banister she listens.
“Louisa. Are you there?”
It is Lyndon’s voice. Shutting up the spare room she runs down the stairs. He is in the kitchen.
“Hello,” he says, “I thought you might need someone . . . To lift boxes or something?”
He is wearing old jeans and a sweater with a hole in the sleeve. The light in the room is poor. He has his back to the window and she cannot see his face clearly.
“Did Susan send you?”
“I haven’t seen her this morning. I just don’t think you should be here – in this place – all on your own.”
She begins to tremble. The room whirls and splinters through tears her pride will not let him see.
“Hey, steady on.” He catches her before she can fall.
His sweater smells of the sea. She rests her head against him until the spinning stops. Then she steps away and sits in the rocking chair.