In the moment that Maura turned into the drive and caught her first glimpse of Essen Grange, she knew she had made a mistake in accepting this job. A dire mistake.
She’d had her first sneaking suspicion of it fifteen minutes before when she’d stopped at the village shop. The man behind the counter had shown an interest at seeing a stranger in the area and had asked her where she was heading. The mention of Essen Grange had caused him to raise his eyebrows and look at her as if she was at least one sandwich short of a picnic. The woman waiting behind her had said, ‘Want to be careful up there, love. There’s them as go in that never come out.’
The woman’s words had resulted in a protracted nod of agreement from the man and a hesitant, defensive smile from Maura. What was it with villagers and local “colour”? She had taken her pack of mints and her change and walked from the shop shaking her head in amused disbelief.
It was only when she caught her first glimpse of the house that was to be her temporary home that she began to wonder if their casual gossip had been a warning. She might have made more of it at the time if it hadn’t been for the distraction of a little girl outside the shop. The girl was wearing a nurse’s outfit and bandaging a doll while she waited with her mother on a bench at the bus stop. It had made Maura smile. She’d been that girl years ago, all dressed up and ready to tend to the world and its ills. She still was, but it wasn’t so thrilling when you were all grown up and the patients were real and had a habit of bleeding or puking on the uniform and communicating with a vocabulary consisting mostly of base profanity. That too made her smile and it was a good sign. It had been a long time since she’d felt the urge to smile.
Swathed in ribbons of winter mist, the Grange loomed, a monolith of ugliness unredeemed by any sense of heritage. It was like a rotten tooth rising proud in a diseased gum and stood in stark contrast to the bright new housing development she had just driven through. Essen Grange had a brooding menace that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise and prickle.
‘The house that Frankenstein built,’ she muttered, suppressing a shudder as she looked at it through her windscreen. It had been stitched together over centuries by the looks of it, but with no plan – just the fads of the day tacked on without thought or design. The only thing that softened it was the ivy, though even that hung in drab, heavy swags that added more atmosphere than charm. There had never been any roses around the Grange’s door, she was certain of that. It made her own modest home look like a haven of comfort in comparison, and that had been a lonely enough place of late.
It was too late to turn back. The deal was done; she had agreed to take the job. Not that she had taken much persuading. Like a desperate idiot, she had jumped at it – had even been flattered to hear that she had been personally requested, though she hadn’t had the foresight to ask who had made the request. Besides, there was nothing to go back to. Just an empty house with nothing to do but sit there night after night, the ghosts of the past competing with her rage and grief to see which of them could defeat her first. One of them had been ringing Maura incessantly throughout the journey. Not a ghost, but someone who might as well have been: a sister who had a committed a cardinal sin and now wanted forgiveness. Maura could neither forgive nor forget – not yet – and had almost thrown the phone out of the window in sheer frustration. Instead she had switched it off and thrown it into the foot well of the car. She might be angry; she might even be running away – but she wasn’t stupid. No one travelled into unknown territory and threw away their phone. Not even women who took jobs without asking sensible questions.
Maura’s head told her that, for all its sinister countenance, the Grange had to be a better bet than home and constant harassment by her sister. Her gut did not agree. It lurched like a drunk on a boat as she looked up at the house. Her instinct insisted that something was off, something wasn’t right, and it would not agree with what her head was telling her: that she should pull herself together, stop being an idiot and get on with it. She should have run then. She should have climbed back in the car, turned around and driven away in a cloud of dust and skidding gravel. But Maura had decided to be guided by her head, not her feelings. Feelings had proven most unreliable in the past and had led her into places she never wanted to revisit.
Swallowing the uneasy feelings down, she walked up to the porch, approached the door and gave the bell a tentative push, expecting to hear an echoing ring. She heard nothing, not even the hint of a distant chime. She waited for a long moment, wondering if the bell had sounded in some back recess of the house. Still nothing.
Hanging from the door was a knocker, a rusting iron ring gripped in the snarling teeth of a lion’s mouth. It looked as if it would take two hands to lift it, and as if the sound it might make could wake the dead – or something worse. Maura had no idea what ‘worse’ might be and cursed her overactive imagination, yet she couldn’t quite convince herself not to feel a sense of dread. Just because instincts could be ignored, it didn’t mean they disappeared. ‘Get a grip woman,’ she told herself. ‘It’s just a house, and it must have a back door.’
She found the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the house, nestled in the corner of a brick-paved courtyard amidst a sea of other doors that, in the low-lying mist, could have been portals to anywhere. It was the only door that showed signs of regular use; the rest looked like unused sheds, their paint peeling and flaking from neglect. A pair of wellington boots stood to the side of the door that she assumed must lead into the kitchen. A steamed-up window prevented her from looking in, but as she approached she heard the whine of a gas kettle ramping up to screaming point and knew she had found the right place. As she was about to knock the kettle ceased its whine. With her hand poised she paused. To her astonishment, she heard a muffled yet familiar voice filtering through the open window – it stopped her in her tracks and her hand fell to her side.
What on earth was Philip Moss doing in there?
‘You worry too much. Besides, no one’s going to say anything. No one will believe him. I’ve made sure of that. Anyway, they’re all in it as much as we are and you know I had no choice. Someone’s got to look after him, the rest will take care of itself,’ he said in the imperious tone Maura knew of old. So, it was him who’d asked for her by name, although God knew why, as they had never done more than tolerate each other. Maura viewed him as a pompous git and he’d never given the impression that she featured in his world at all, other than to act as a pain in his backside when they’d been forced to work together. Maura was the zealous nurse, full of fire and compassion for her patients; Philip Moss was the jaded doctor, too quick with the prescription pad and the chemical cosh of medication.
She stepped back from the door, afraid of being seen, so couldn’t make out exactly what he said next, but she could have sworn she heard her own name and some assertion that she wasn’t “that bright” and that, in her circumstances, she’d be grateful for the job. It was a low blow and proved the point that eavesdroppers would never hear well of themselves. Dr Philip Moss had always been a bit of an arsehole in Maura’s opinion, and he had done nothing to redeem himself by asserting such an opinion to a stranger.
There was no way she could knock on the back door now. He would know she’d overheard, or at least suspect it. Her already fragile pride forced her to trudge back to the front of the house, where, with two hands, she picked up the gurning iron ring and slammed it onto the rusting iron plate beneath, announcing her presence with a gunshot of noise that ricocheted through the house like a starting pistol. The sound caused the crows to rise and fly from the trees in a flurry of black feather and screeching. It made her blood run cold. ‘Bloody hell! Welcome to the house of fun…’ she muttered as the birds wheeled in the sky above her head. There was only one bird left in the trees, a single magpie. Clinging to its branch, it stared at her in what felt like defiance.
One for sorrow.
A bad omen.
She should have got back in her car and driven away.
She should have done a great many things – like ask more questions when the agency had called to offer the job; like think it through and use reason instead of reacting impulsively. Like not view the opportunity to get away with such desperate need that it had felt like a blessed relief instead of an abject act of foolhardiness on the part of a frenzied mind. Did she have a frenzied mind? Her doctor had thought so when he’d signed her off work all those months ago with a diagnosis of agitated depression. What a charming contradiction of terms that was – all the energy, none of the motivation. It might have made her laugh if it wasn’t actual depression, the Black Dog. Only Maura could end up with the version where the dog wanted to play fetch! But that was in the past; she was getting better, returning to work, moving on. She had smiled that day without someone telling her to with the inevitable “Cheer up, it might never happen”. “It” had happened and she was still standing. And now she was going back to do what she loved: her job. Despite the blood and the puke and the swearing, there was still something about nursing that made her feel like the little girl with the bandaged doll and the little outfit. It meant she still cared. It meant she still had hope. And it meant she still believed that things and people could be healed.
As she waited for the door to open, she realised that hers was the only car, other than the beaten-up old heap masquerading as a Ford Fiesta. Where on earth had Dr Moss parked? Perhaps there was a back way into the Grange and his posh wheels were parked out of sight behind the brick storage sheds and high wall. He sure as hell hadn’t ridden there on the bike that was leaning against the bushes. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to park out front. After all, she wasn’t a guest. She was staff. The thought made her feel even smaller than the vast, ugly house had already. It was becoming a familiar feeling. So many things in recent times had made her feel small – it was as if the effects of betrayal had come in a stoppered bottle complete with a label that demanded “Drink Me”, and she had, draining the bloody thing dry in one gulp.
Shaking the anxiety off, she stood firm. Someone was coming; there were footsteps approaching the door. A woman with a pinched-looking face and a bad perm opened the door, her hair looking almost as frazzled as her demeanour. ‘You the nurse?’ she asked, treating Maura to the sweeping gaze of one who wholeheartedly objected to her presence.
Maura nodded. ‘I’m Maura Lyle, the RMN.’
‘Best get in then – I haven’t got all day and you’re a bit later than they said.’
Maura felt a flush of guilt creep into her cheeks as she stepped into the hallway at the woman’s behest. ‘I’m so sorry. I got a bit lost coming through the new estate.’ It was true. Her satnav hadn’t recognised the new-build houses and crazy street layout, and she’d found herself at several muddy dead ends before finding the end of the drive that led to the Grange.
The woman looked her up and down, appraising her and apparently finding her wanting. ‘It’s easy done, it’s like a bloody rat maze now. Best come through to the kitchen, it’s warmer in there.’
Maura left her bag in the hall and followed the woman to a baize door hidden discreetly under the stairs. It was a long time since she’d seen a symbol that so succinctly announced the divide between us and them. It both amused and irritated her in equal measure; she had thought that kind of thing long gone and just a feature of nostalgic Sunday-night TV dramas. Not so with the Grange. She smiled behind the woman’s back as the strains of “Let’s do the time warp again” filtered through her mind. If she had to curtsey to anyone she’d be buggered; neither her knees nor her tight jeans would stand up to such nonsense.
The promise of warmth was welcome, though; just those few moments in the dark-panelled hall had created a distinct chill in her bones. The air inside felt colder than the damp winter mist outside, and her first impression was that the whole place would gleefully thwart any attempts at heat and light – it had cloaked itself in gloom and rendered itself impenetrable. The building seemed to have been constructed to defy comfort with its small windows, narrow passages and dark wood. It was a house built for secrets and seclusion. A house that silently screamed privacy. The Grange had no need of Keep Out signs; trespassers would willingly avoid it on instinct.
The kitchen came as a relief, clean and bright, yet not modern in any sense of the word. Last decorated in the early seventies by the look of it, but it did have the promised warmth. Dr Moss was nowhere to be seen and Maura guessed he had slipped out when she hammered on the door. God knew why – it wasn’t as if they didn’t know each other.
‘Sit yourself down. I’ve just made tea, then we can go through everything. I’m Cheryl, by the way – I do the cleaning and whatnot. Though it’s been more “whatnot” than anything else lately!’ Cheryl said with a thin, strained laugh. ‘Can’t say I’m not glad to see you in some ways, though I don’t know why they thought you were needed. I don’t mind seeing to his food and stuff or cleaning up after him, but I can’t be coping with his moods, the vicious old bugger. You’ll have to watch him, he likes to scratch.’ She rolled up the sleeve of her cardigan to show Maura the evidence of her claim. It looked as though she’d been savaged by a large and angry cat.
Maura assumed that Cheryl meant Gordon Henderson, the man she had been employed to look after. ‘I expect that Miss Hall falling and needing her own care has disrupted him.’
Cheryl rolled her eyes and flicked the switch on the kettle. ‘That’s an understatement! Mind you, he’s an ornery old sod at the best of times, doesn’t like change. He’s been like a cat on a hot tin roof ever since the building work started. Can’t get his head around it and it upsets him no end. Mind you, I’d feel the same if I was him – seeing your land sold off like that must be hard. Still, it’s her what has the purse strings, not him. You’ll have your work cut out, mark my words – he don’t take to strangers. None of us do.’ She said it as if it was a matter of intractable fact.
Maura gave her a wry smile in appreciation of her message of doom. In her ten years as a psychiatric nurse she had been spat on, sworn at, hit and generally abused on a daily basis. She felt confident that a stroppy old man wouldn’t prove difficult. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ It was what she did and why she’d chosen to work in mental health: she had the ability to tame people and absorb their distress. It was what she was good at, even if she struggled to tame her own. When it came to other people, she cared, even when nobody else did. Sometimes even when she shouldn’t.
Cheryl heaved a large teapot onto the table. ‘Going to have to, aren’t you? Don’t suppose any of us has any choice but to make the best of a bad do. As long as you don’t interfere with me we won’t fall out. I have my jobs, you stick to yours. Just do as you’re told and we’ll all be fine.’ As she spoke, her eyes flickered towards the ceiling and a slight frown settled on her forehead.
Maura followed her gaze and saw nothing but cracked and flaking plaster. She had no intention of poking around where she wasn’t wanted – the woman could clean the depressing house to her heart’s content for all Maura cared. The way she was feeling, she wouldn’t be staying long anyway. The prospect of her own, lonely, memory-filled house was becoming more appealing by the second. But she’d been paid in advance – it made it awkward. And there was the old man with no one to care for him other than Cheryl, a woman who made Maura look positively cheerful in comparison.
As Cheryl poured the tea in weak, steaming streams, Maura said, ‘You do know I won’t be here on Mondays and Tuesdays? Well, during the day anyway. I’ll also be out on Thursday afternoons.’
Cheryl slopped milk into the cups ‘They said, but it’s mainly nights you’re needed anyway. I’m here every day so I can see to him then as long as you get him up. I’ve been coming in more since she had the fall, someone had to, but I’ve got me own mother to see to so I can’t be here all the time. Just stick to your duties. We’ve managed fine without till now, so I’m sure we’ll manage when you’re not here.’
Maura took her tea and didn’t wonder at why the woman seemed so frazzled. It must have been hard work dividing her loyalties. ‘Is your mother ill?’ she asked, imagining what it must be like to be in this house day after day, having its atmosphere soak into your skin and mess with your temperament. No wonder Cheryl was so gritty.
‘Nope, just old and lonely. Mind you, aren’t we all?’
Maura wasn’t sure how to take that. She knew that what she saw in the mirror, when she deigned to look, wasn’t what she wanted to see – a face made gaunt by loss and shame. She hadn’t thought she wore her unhappiness so blatantly so she chose to take Cheryl’s words as a general observation on life rather than a direct assessment of her personally, and any similarities to the harried housekeeper and her burdened state. ‘I was told you’d run me through his routines and show me where everything is.’
Cheryl laughed and pulled a sheaf of papers towards her. ‘Her ladyship made me write it all down ages ago, as if I don’t know all their foibles already. He’s a very particular man, likes things just so – as does she, so you’d be wise to remember it. No one in this house likes change.’ She said it with a hard stare, which did nothing to reassure Maura. ‘They are people who demand perfection, so make sure you get things right first time.’
The list went on and on: how he liked his bread cut (in quarters with the crusts cut off, butter – not margarine – thinly spread right to the edges), the precise consistency of his hot drinks (tea, weak, a splash of ice-cold milk and a quarter of a level teaspoon of sugar. At night, cocoa, not drinking chocolate, made in a pan with full-cream milk, to be served at precisely 9.30 p.m.), his medication (pills to be given in precise colour order beginning with the small blues ones and ending with the white). By the end of it, Maura was heartily relieved that Cheryl had written it down; the whole thing might have been a disaster if she hadn’t. ‘I think I’d better make a copy of that and carry it around with me!’ she quipped as Cheryl explained exactly how many loops Gordon preferred in the Windsor knot of his tie, before adding that he rarely got dressed at all these days so not to worry too much about that.
Cheryl didn’t catch the joke and frowned. ‘Might not be a bad idea. Anyway, I’ll show you around and then take you to meet him.’
Maura drained the last of her piss-weak tea and followed Cheryl out into the chill grasp of the house. She was about to ask where Dr Moss had gone, but realised this would reveal she’d been listening outside doors. Cheryl was abrasive enough, without Maura rubbing her any further up the wrong way. The woman’s hostility already came off her in sharp spikes, like static electricity that snapped and bit whenever anyone got too close. Cheryl’s welcome had been as bitter and cold as the house itself. For Maura, it didn’t bode well, but she had to admit she felt sorry for the woman.