Chapter One
August 2010
At first glance Coronation Square didn’t seem to have changed much in over thirty years; it still had its postage stamp patch of green in the middle and still boasted its tall Victorian houses on all four sides. It still looked blowsy and overdone, and it still had a baleful air that marked it out as somewhere to be wary of. On closer inspection, Edie could see that things had altered – the square had faded like an old rose and its previously respectable veneer had degenerated into a flimsy, fragile facade.
As she walked past the buildings she noticed the addition of new doorbells, up to six per house, each one bearing a flimsy weather faded label that left people none the wiser as to who might live there. Old family homes had been carved up, mutating into flats and bedsits to house a cheapskate, shifting population. The street drinkers and off duty prostitutes made a desultory change from the sherry sipping matriarchs who had twitched their net curtains and traded in gossip. Edie remembered them well and shuddered at the thought.
Number 17 was just as it always had been, and as familiar to Edie as looking back at her own childhood face in photographs. The house stood out like a rotten tooth, seedy and discoloured from neglect, ancient blue paint flaked from the window frames and peeled in curling sheets from the front door. The brass knocker hung precariously from a single remaining screw, the metal pockmarked and dulled by years of inattention. Edie regarded the whole place with a reluctance that sat like a brooding gargoyle at the centre of her being. This was not a visit she would have chosen to make had she not been forced to by circumstances, and the state of the house represented everything that she felt about her extended family – neglected, old-fashioned, out of kilter and more than a little embarrassing. The Morris family would never have been singled out for the voracity of their housekeeping or their ability to embrace change. Edie doubted that the Morris family would have been singled out for much, though she might have won the prize for most inept midlife crisis, most acrimonious divorce and person never likely to amount to much (if anyone had held a competition).
Not that any of it mattered, she had arrived and there was work to do. To her surprise the old key worked perfectly and gave her easy entry into a cluttered, dingy, pungent past.
The first thing she did was open the kitchen window to dissipate the foetid air; the second was to ring her sister. ‘Hey, it’s me, I’m here.’
‘Oh God, how bad is it?’ Rose asked, her voice laden with false concern. They both knew that she couldn’t have cared less, so long as she didn’t have to deal with it.
Edie surveyed her surroundings, she had perched herself on the edge of a rickety chair and from there she could see only a fraction of the desuetude that had beset the house. Grease had trickled and congealed on the walls and mould had started to mount an onslaught in neglected corners. It looked like Aunt Dolly hadn’t deigned to lift a cloth in some time. ‘A combination of Steptoe’s front yard and 10 Rillington Place springs to mind, and that’s just based on the smell. It’s bad Rose, really bad.’
‘Oh Lord, I wasn’t sure what it would be like. Are you sure you can do this on your own?’
Edie sighed, Rose’s feigned empathy was a constant source of irritation. ‘There isn’t much choice, you can’t help and there isn’t anyone else.’ Rose was about to embark on a month long cruise with her husband – a long awaited trip that couldn’t be put aside, even for the death of a relative. ‘I can’t see this place fetching much; it will need gutting and half rebuilding looking at the state of it. Is anyone going to want to take it on?’
‘Someone will, the property prices in that area of Winfield are going through the roof. It’s up and coming, Edie, someone’s going to get an absolute bargain.’
Edie thought about the one stop shop, the street drinkers and the bedsits. ‘That someone will need to have a lot of vision then. Rose, should we feel bad that we let it go on so long, should we have done more?’ Edie hadn’t set foot in the house since 1980 when it had been untidy and in need of a clean, but not on the point of ruin. She had been a child then, and how people lived hadn’t been her primary concern. At that age she had been preoccupied by ponies that she would never own and contemplating a career as an air hostess, not worrying about how her strange relatives chose to live their lives. It had been a nice age, a time to have fantasies, a time to be unaffected by the knowledge that ponies were expensive manure producing machines and that air hostesses were just glorified waitresses. Reality always bit eventually.
‘How could we have known? She never told us how bad things were, I used to phone her once a month and she never said a word. I suppose we could have done more, but how were we to know?’ Rose was being unusually generous in her use of the word ‘we’ – Edie had never phoned or ever checked in on her elderly aunt to pass the time of day, she had been too busy having a life. Now she wasn’t, and this hasty, unwanted task felt like too little done too late. ‘Do you think there is much of any value in there?’ Rose asked.
Edie looked around again. ‘I have no idea, most of it looks like junk at the moment, and filthy junk at that. But I’ll sort through it and let you know.’ Rose wasn’t being greedy, Dolly Morris had died with debts and the money had to come from somewhere. Being executor of this particular will came with responsibilities, not benefits.
‘Will you go to the funeral?’
‘I suppose I should, I’m taking apart her life and selling it for scrap, it would seem mercenary not to.’ Edie said, wondering if Simon felt the same obligation to her now that their house was in the process of being sold and their property was being divided. She doubted it, his only obligation seemed to be to himself these days. ‘I know one thing though, we’ll have shares in Lever by the time I’m finished, I may well make a dent in the European bleach mountain tackling this mess.’
Rose laughed. Edie asked her how she was feeling. There had been some complaining about a twisted ankle that Rose worried might ruin the cruise.
‘Sore and bored. Evan is being good though, helping out, and the girls are calling in every day. I might die of the boredom though. I can’t wait until we leave.’ Of course Evan was being good, he was the kind of husband who would be. Rose’s daughters were pretty perfect too; they had stayed close to home and close to their mother. Sometimes Edie envied her sister that perfect family. She thought of her own child, made in his father’s image and doing his own thing ten thousand miles away, and of her home being sold, all her things and furniture packed up in crates and boxes which were sitting in a storage unit. Gah! She needed to get over herself, at this rate she would end up just like Dolly had, sick and lonely in a house that held the bones of the past like an ossuary for the forgotten.
‘I doubt that Rose, give it a few weeks on that cruise and you’ll be back better than before.’
‘Well I’ll try and enjoy myself, though it will be hard thinking of you tackling this great big mess. Good luck with the clear out.’ Her tone was full of sympathy, which grated on Edie like sandpaper being dragged over her skin. It was pointless saying anything. Rose was going on her trip regardless. Edie had pulled the short straw and had to live with it.
‘Thanks, I might need it.’ Edie ended the call with the usual niceties and turned to contemplate her task. Good sense dictated that she try and make the kitchen semi hygienic first, she would be staying a while and she would need to eat. The prospect of food poisoning wasn’t pleasant and by the look of it several new life forms were breeding in the kitchen. She daren’t dwell on the thought too long for fear of throwing up at the horrors that her imagination might conjure, let alone the ones that faced her in in the filthy kitchen.
A quick survey of the cupboards told her that Dolly hadn’t been a fan of cleaning products; a tin of petrified Vim and a dribble of disinfectant weren’t going to cut it. Neither was the rock hard, blackened cloth that was welded to the waste pipe. It was time to go to the one stop shop and stock up.
If old Mrs Vale (the terrifying matriarch that still loomed large in her memory) had still owned the shop Edie’s basket would have raised questions. The copious quantities of cleaning products and three rolls of black bags would have garnered curiosity, and in an hour the whole square would have known that Edie Byrne was clearing out the Morris house. On this occasion the gum-chewing girl behind the till didn’t show a flicker of interest, and barely looked up when Edie paid. Edie guessed that Dolly’s fate was no one’s business and nobody’s concern these days. There was something to be said for net curtain twitchers, they missed little and would never have allowed an old lady to lie for days at the bottom of the stairs with a broken hip – she had lain there so long that she had died helpless and alone. Dolly’s plight had been noticed not by her neighbours, but by a persistent meter reader determined to do his job, even if it did mean peering in through dirty windows and discovering dead old women. Every time she thought of it, Edie felt a flush of guilt – Dolly’s lonely death had been inevitable simply because no one had cared, and she was one of the few who had been obliged to.
She lugged her shopping bags back across the square, using the central garden as a short cut. There had been a time when the garden had been a pleasant place where kids could play. It seemed to be the haunt of the druggies and drunks now, if the litter of cans and needles were evidence of anything. As she approached the gate opposite number seventeen, she spied a group of people congregated outside the house and listening rapt as a man lectured them. He was pointing at the main drain in the road at the front of the house.
‘Sally Pollett had been missing for four days when the residents of number fifteen called in the water board to complain that the drain was blocked and that an awful smell was pervading the street. When the workmen arrived and pulled up the manhole cover, they discovered her remains wedged into the shaft and starting to decay. She had been strangled, her underwear forced into her throat and her hair sheared off. Her female organs had been mutilated while she was still alive. It was the last in a string of murders which rocked the borough of Winfield.’ The man announced his tale with dramatic flair, his voice wringing every drop of shock and horror that it could from the story.
The group blocked Edie’s path, she edged up to them and lingered on the fringes, catching the attention of a man with a camera. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘Murder tour, we’re visiting the sites where all of John Bastin’s victims were found.’ he said in a thick West Country accent. ‘Done ‘em all now. Ripper tour in London, ghost tour in Edinburgh and now Winfield. It’s dead interesting.’
Edie’s presence had caught the attention of the tour guide. ‘Excuse me madam, would you mind stepping back, the tour is for paying customers only.’
Edie bristled, ‘Happy to, if you could move your paying customers away from the front of my house. Or do I get a cut of the profits from your tawdry tour?’
The man looked indignant and chivvied his entourage towards the gardens, where he explained that the naked body of Elizabeth Rees had been found, laid out on a park bench for all to see.
Edie felt inordinately irked by the presence of the group and their macabre interest in Winfield’s darker history. She had little issue with ghost tours and Ripper tours, they were based in a period that no one living could remember, but the Winfield murders had happened only fifty years before. Relatives of the victims were still living in the area, or at least had been when she was a child. Mrs Campion who lived at Number 15 had been Dolly’s neighbour, and both had been friends of Sally Pollett. It couldn’t be right that people should profit from such recent tragedies.
By the time Edie had rested her heavy bags in the porch and had found the key, the group were milling around the garden taking photographs. The man in charge was staring at her, not with hostility, but curiosity. Edie shrugged and turned her back to him, but not without noticing that she was also being watched from next door. It seemed that at least one of the net curtain twitchers was alive and kicking, and still surveying her demesne from behind an anonymous veil of greying lace.
It took three hours to clear the kitchen of its clutter, and a further two just to clean it. By the time she had finished Edie had two black sacks full of out of date food, including tins of things that might be museum pieces if they hadn’t been so rusty and rimed with age. Some of the items she had consigned to the rubbish were artefacts of social history, but too far gone to be of any value or interest. A silver tea service, black with tarnish but complete with the original tray might be worth something and had been consigned to a box for further consideration and cleaning. Alongside it lay a variety of storage tins, possibly of interest to collectors of vintage kitsch and tawdry paraphernalia. There had been a ton of them, but some still contained detritus of dubious origin, which had turned Edie’s stomach and it had been too much trouble to attempt to salvage the tins.
The huge metal teapot – beloved of Dolly, and her mother before her – had been consigned to the bin. Edie couldn’t face a cup of anything brewed inside its tannin lacquered innards and settled instead for a tea bag in a chipped coronation mug, filled with water from the ancient enamel kettle which still functioned, though it had lost its whistle long ago. Edie was weary from her labours, but satisfied that she had made a dent and brought a measure of civilisation back to the proceedings. At least she knew she was less likely to contract something systemically untenable from the kitchen. The toilet had to be her next port of call and by the look of it anything might be mutating in there. It had received a whole bottle of bleach a few hours before and she hoped the substance would live up to its claims and kill ninety-nine percent of all known germs, though she could hazard a guess that Dolly had nurtured a few million as yet uncharted by biology. At this stage it was tempting to just cordon everything off with biohazard tape and throw petrol on it. Unfortunately it wasn’t an option; arson wouldn’t pay the debts. The debts were a puzzle, there had been no evidence that Dolly had been short of money, yet she had released equity from the house and left it mortgaged to the hilt. There was even less evidence of where the money had gone. It certainly hadn’t been spent on the high life or home improvements.
At five o clock Edie started to feel hungry and contemplated revisiting the shop in search of food. A quick glance in Dolly’s dusty hall mirror told her that she would probably need a bath and a change before venturing out. The grime of the kitchen had transferred itself to her and she ran the risk of being picked up for vagrancy if seen in public in that state. She had yet to assess the condition of the upstairs bathroom and dreaded what she might find. Halfway up the stairs her progress was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.
A young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, stood on the doorstep. She surveyed Edie’s dishevelled state with utter disdain but delivered her message anyway. ‘Nan says to ask if you are Rose or Edie.’
‘I’m Edie, why?’
‘Nan says if you’re one of them you’re to come round for a cup of tea.’
Edie was taken aback, ‘That’s very kind of your nan, but it’s really not necessary.’
‘Nan said you would say that, and told me to tell you to wind your neck in and do as you were told and that Beattie would have tanned your hide for being so rude.’ The girl said it as if she had rehearsed her speech thoroughly. ‘Who’s Beattie?’ she added as an afterthought.
Edie smiled, ‘Beattie was my nan, and she was twice as terrifying as yours. Tell Lena I’ll be round in twenty minutes. And tell her I said thank you.’
The girl nodded and made to turn away, ‘So, what’s your name?’ Edie asked.
‘Georgia.’ the girl said as she flitted back down the front steps.
So, Lena Campion was still alive and more than likely the quiet observer behind the lace. Edie remembered her well, but had forgotten the neighbourliness that would make a person invite a virtual stranger to tea. Perhaps it was an artefact of the days when Coronation Square had been the kind of place where no one locked their door and there had been a lively trade in bartered cups of sugar and shillings for the meter. Edie shrugged off the reverie and returned to the task of cleaning herself up, dwelling on the past could serve no useful purpose.
The bathroom was just as bad as everywhere else and even ten minutes of scouring couldn’t bring the bath up to any acceptable shade of white, but Edie figured it was clean, if not attractive. A tepid, shallow bath was run from the worryingly ancient hot water heater that needed a match to light it and a prayer to stop it from exploding. Edie wondered that Dolly had survived at all, alone in such a house; it seemed booby trapped by antiquity and liable to be the death of someone sooner or later.
At six twenty-five she had managed some semblance of humanity again and set off to Lena’s for the promised tea.
In juxtaposition to Number 17, Lena’s house had always been a riot of family life. People drifted in and out at will and there were always children haring about. A pot of fresh tea was always on the go. It seemed quieter now and there was no sign of the girl Georgia, but Lena hadn’t changed in the thirty-five years since Edie had last been in her company. She was a little more bent, softer around the middle and her face was lined, but her personality hadn’t altered a bit. Her tilted smile of welcome was wry and gave some indication that the loud mouthed matriarch of old was still fully present.
‘Sit yourself down.’ Lena said, indicating a chair to the side of a cloth covered table. The seating was marked out by the addition of place mats showing ‘scenes of old Winfield’, scenes that Edie couldn’t remember. Winfield as a verdant residential paradise was long before her time. She did as she was told and sat, smiling her thanks at the old woman. ‘It’s very kind of you to invite me round, I wasn’t sure if anyone who knew Dolly would still be living around here.’
Lena hauled the huge teapot over the bone china mugs and poured expertly, a thin stream of golden liquid releasing its enticing perfume as it hit the china. Lena was so adept at this ritual that she could complete it without a drop being dribbled or splashed onto the white linen cloth beneath. As Edie watched she knew that she would never be able to achieve the same, everything would have been sullied if left in her hands.
‘Well, I think I might be the last, they’ve almost all gone one way or the other.’ Lena said, setting the pot down as if it weighed no more than a piece of fine blown glass. ‘So, you just back for the funeral then?’
Edie tried to smile but couldn’t. ‘That, and I’m here to clear out the house and put it up for sale,’ she said.
Lena froze for a moment and stiffened, the milk jug held in mid-air. ‘Sell?’
‘I’m afraid so. She had a little bit in the bank, but not enough to pay all the debts she had.’
‘Couldn’t one of you girls have lived with her and helped her? It’s what we did in my day, I looked after my mother until the day she died and Dolly looked after your grandmother until she died.’ Lena said. A little judgmentally if Edie were honest.
A brief respite, brought about by the questions of milk and sugar, allowed Edie to think about her response. ‘Perhaps we should have, but I haven’t seen her since I was a kid. Rose and I thought things were fine, Dolly never said otherwise. We didn’t know how bad things had got.’ Even to Edie’s ears it sounded like a litany of excuses, the timbre of her guilt making her want to run from Lena’s censure.
Lena stirred her tea and nodded. ‘Fair enough. Just thought I’d be gone before the square was. I thought Dolly would be the last one standing, not me. I’d like to say that you could move in next door and keep the old place ticking, but it’s beyond that, I know. I’ve been nagging her for years to sort the place out but after Dickie died she just lost heart for it. I tried to help her as much as I could, but in recent months she wouldn’t even answer the door to me, just cut me out completely, it’s like she lived her life in the past. She hardly left the house by the end and I feel so bad that I didn’t know that she was hurt.’
There was such a look of sorrow and worry on Lena’s face that Edie felt compelled to reach out and squeeze the old lady’s hand. ‘You were friends for such a long time.’ she said.
Lena looked away from her and surreptitiously wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron. ‘We were. Me and Dolly, the scourge of Winfield, your uncle Dickie trailing in our wake.’ She laughed and shook her head as if to shake off her memories. ‘All gone now though.’
Edie thought about Dolly’s twin for a moment. Dickie had been the Boo Radley of Coronation Square, a ubiquitous yet quiet presence, unobtrusive but powerful nonetheless. He had died five years before; Edie hadn’t gone to his funeral and felt sad about that now. Sad that Dolly hadn’t told Rose until it was too late. Edie didn’t even know where he’d been cremated, or whether there was a memorial, no one had ever mentioned one. Dickie had been a sweet man and had deserved better, from everyone. ‘Things change,’ she said.
Lena looked at her. ‘Aye, they do, and not always for the better.’
They were quiet for a moment as both sipped their tea, though Edie was acutely aware that Lena was studying her intently. Eventually Lena broke the silence. ‘What was you shouting about, out in the street earlier? I was watching you through the curtains.’
‘I thought it might be you. I was having a go at that bloody man about running his murder tours on the doorstep.’
‘Hmmmm. Won’t do you any good, he’s been running them for a few years now and they’re very popular. We can’t stop him.’
‘It seems somewhat insensitive, given that you still live here, and well, you know…’
Lena pushed her cup away and sat back in her chair. ‘It makes no difference. We’ve lived with the legacy of those murders for all these years, him rubbing our faces in it won’t make much difference.’
‘I find it pretty shocking that anybody would.’ Edie said.
‘Ah well, I expect he has his reasons.’
Edie was about to argue about what those reasons might be when the front door slammed making her jump.
‘That’ll be Sam.’ Lena said, hauling herself to her feet. ‘I’d best get another cup.’
Edie watched her waddle into the kitchen and braced herself for the re-acquaintance with Sam. She had forgotten about him until Lena had said his name. Somewhere in her mind were vivid memories of a boy prone to pulling hair and bullying little girls, a boy she’d had a huge crush on if she remembered correctly. The Sam she could recall had managed to turn a simple game of hide and seek into a terrifying blood sport, calling it Murder in the Dark and scaring her witless. She was still smiling at the memory when he walked in.
‘Bloody hell, Edie Morris!’
‘Hello Sam, and it’s Edie Byrne now. How are you, still terrorising the neighbourhood?’
‘Not so much these days, not so many annoying little girls following me around.’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘You’ve changed.’
‘I’d be a bit of a medical oddity if I hadn’t, it’s been thirty odd years.’ she said, returning his scrutiny and appraising him. She wished the years had been as kind to her and wondered why it was that men aged so much more appealingly than women. Where Sam had laughter lines, she had crow’s feet.
‘Back for the funeral are you? Bit of a mess to face next door. I don’t envy you, last time I was in there it was like the black hole of Calcutta.’
‘Something like that.’ Edie said, thinking about all the rooms she had yet to tackle. ‘When did you last visit?’
‘Years ago, when Dickie was alive. He was a bit prone to falling over and Dolly couldn’t lift him, I’d help out when I could.’
Edie felt another flush of guilt at the realisation that this other family had borne the burdens of her own while she and Rose had blithely got on with their lives. ‘We didn’t know how bad things had got, Dolly never let on.’ she said.
‘That’s what happens when you live away I suppose. So Edie Byrne, what’s with you these days, married? Kids?’
‘Recently unmarried and one kid, though he’s not much of a kid now. He’s twenty-six and doing his own thing. I take it Georgia is yours?’ Edie said, still wondering where the young girl had disappeared to, she had been expecting to meet her again.
‘Georgie? Not mine, I love her dearly but won’t lay claim to her. No, she’s Shelley’s kid, you remember Shelley?’
Edie didn’t, or if she did it was a vague flash. Even back then she had been hard pressed to keep track of the Campion brood. Lena had come from a big family and was always knee deep in relatives. ‘Vaguely, is she Davy’s daughter?’ Davy was Lena’s brother and a man who had given the younger Edie a severe dose of the creeps.
‘That’s her. She’s on her own now, so Mum helps out and so do I.’
Edie had forgotten how confusing Lena’s family could be, she supposed the children called Lena ‘Nan’ because it was simpler. ‘I never could keep track of you lot. There were so many,’ she said.
Sam laughed; it suited him, he had a face designed for laughter. ‘That’s true. How’s Rose, I always had a bit of a thing for her when I was a kid.’
Edie was surprised at this, Rose must be at least eight years older than Sam. ‘She’s OK, she’s laid up with a broken leg, but getting better. She’s married with twin girls.’
‘Blimey, she never did do anything by halves.’ Sam said.
Edie felt a little wistful that Sam remembered her as annoying and Rose as a paragon. Some things never changed.
‘So, how long are you staying?’
‘As long as it takes to get the house sorted out. By the look of it, that could be some time.’
‘If you’re planning on selling stuff I’ve got a friend who’s an auctioneer, I could get him to call round and take a look if you like?’
‘I’m not sure any of it will be worth much, but that would be helpful. Thanks. I might need a few days to sort through the junk though.’
‘I’ll give you my number, you can call me when you’re ready.’ Sam said, pulling out his mobile phone. He reeled off the number and Edie duly inserted it into her own phone’s memory. ‘Where’s that tea Mother, a man could die of thirst at this rate.’ he bawled. The sound of his voice was so deep and sudden that it ricocheted through Edie and made her want to wince. She held her breath for a moment and waited for her heart to steady, wondering how long it would take her to get over her fear of men who shouted. The interjection had unnerved her, and she felt the need to leave, she had stayed long enough for politeness’ sake. ‘Well, I should go, lots to do next door.’
Lena had returned and stood in the doorway, holding a cup and looking pensive. ‘Don’t do too much on your own, you’ll need some help. It’s quite the mess in there. Stay and have another cup of tea, leave it until after the funeral eh? We’ll help, won’t we Sam?’
Sam smiled. ‘Course we will, what are friends for eh?’
Edie gave them a weak smile, friends were people you saw frequently, not old neighbours who you hadn’t seen since you were a kid – but they were kind people, and kindness was not to be sniffed at. ‘That’s a lovely offer, thank you – I might well take you up on it if it’s all more than I bargained for.’ She turned to Lena, ‘I won’t stay for more tea, but thank you. I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow?’
Lena nodded. ‘Course, we’ll both be there. Have you organised a wake?’
‘Nothing much, just a few sandwiches in the hall at the crem, I’ve no idea who’s coming.’
Lena nodded again. ‘You never know with a funeral, all sorts crawl out of the woodwork. I could have done it here, you know.’
Edie didn’t know what to say, Rose had organised everything over the phone, she had just been nominated as the person who would show up and save what little face Dolly’s family had retained. ‘What a kind offer, but Rose arranged everything, I don’t suppose she would have wanted to put you out.’
Before she left Sam turned to her. ‘It’s been nice to see you again Edie, take care of yourself.’
‘You too, Sam.’ she said, surprised to realise that she meant it. ‘Well, I’ll be off then, I need to sort out somewhere to sleep.’ She turned to Lena. ‘Thank you so much for the tea and company.’
‘You’re welcome, and don’t be a stranger. If you have any questions, you know where I am.’ Lena said.
The old woman still looked a little pensive and her words puzzled Edie – questions about what?
Number 17 felt cold and lonely after the warmth and homeliness of Lena’s house. Despite the fact that it was June, Edie felt inclined to put the fire on in the lounge. There had never been central heating in the house and she remembered it being Baltic in winter with only two gas fires and a scattering of dangerous looking electric heaters to warm the whole house. As she lit the gas she worried about carbon monoxide poisoning and checked the flames for colour; they looked all right, but she was probably no great judge.
She hugged herself and huddled for a moment by the hearth, soaking in some warmth and wondering if the cold might actually be coming from the inside. It would take more than a few half-hearted flames to thaw her ice-defended core.
Ignoring the oppressive clutter of the lounge she made her way upstairs by dint of the feeble landing light, which swung in its shade and cast looming shadows across the stained and aged wallpaper. When she removed her hand from the bannister at the top she noticed that she had gathered a number of long, fine blond hairs on her palm. She shook them off.
Dolly’s bedroom turned out to be a no go zone; not only was it filthy and squalid, but it was full. Every surface was laden with clutter, and clothes had been piled onto the bed. More of the hair littered the room, both in fine filaments and huge hanks. Several disembodied wooden heads had been scattered around the room, each at a varying stages of baldness. It was a macabre sight, especially when lit by a bulb not much brighter than a candle. The fine details of the scene were hidden by inky cloaks of shadow which intensified the grotesquery and heightened Edie’s instinctive reaction, which was to recoil and run. At one time she had been fascinated by her aunt’s occupation and had been mesmerised by the precise creativity that formed the wigs that Dolly made. Now the half-made hair-pieces looked repulsive, like things that had been attacked, savaged and brutalised. The faceless wooden wig blocks made the whole scene even more disturbing, with the shadows painting gruesome features on their flat faces. Edie shut the door and suppressed a shudder. Dolly’s room was best faced in the cold and reasonable light of day.
The spare room, where she and Rose had slept as children, was chock full of junk, Edie was barely able to open the door and step in. The smell of damp and mould assailed her nose and she shut the door on that too.
Dickie’s room had a Mary Celeste feel, as if he had just stepped out for a moment. If the whole room hadn’t been covered in a thick film of dust, Edie might have believed that he had – and was due back at any moment to resume making the half-finished model that sat on his workbench. As a pastime Dickie had made automata, miniature models of fantastic things that sprang to life and moved at the turn of a tiny handle. When Edie had last stayed at the house, he had given her one as a gift – a Pegasus who soared and moved his wings if you wound him up. It had been a simple yet beautiful thing and Edie had treasured it, until Simon had smashed it to bits in a fit of temper. She had kept the parts in a shoe box, intending to ask Dickie to mend it one day, but he had died and so had the marriage, and Pegasus had been lost in the aftermath.
She looked around the room at the shelves, all full of Dickie’s creations – animals, people, birds and beasts, all limited to perfect and precise arcs of movement that could only be brought about by a human hand. They were trapped on their wooden plinths, waiting for freedom and Edie thought she knew something of how it felt. She shut the door softly on Dickie’s domain and left the room in peace.
Her final option upstairs was Beattie’s room, which was as clear and tidy as the others were cluttered. It was the smallest bedroom, a box room really, and was reminiscent of a monk’s cell. Sparse, white and ordered. A plain counterpane lay over the bed, which had been made years before with sheets stretched as tight as the skin of a drum. They were yellow with age and spotted with mould. Edie pressed a hand onto the bed and felt a sensation of damp. She would not be sleeping there.
The last resort was the sofa in the sitting room downstairs. Somehow that felt better and less of an invasion of privacy than using one of the bedrooms. The trick would be finding useable bedding. Everything in the linen cupboard was damp and stank of old dust and decay. Edie had brought her own towels, but hadn’t thought to bring bedding. She thought briefly about shipping out to a hotel, then wondered if Lena might lend her a few sheets and a quilt. If she went to a hotel now, she might never come back and she couldn’t do that. The thought of spending any more time in the house was becoming more and more depressing. Not only was her task daunting but the place seemed to be sighing and breathing around her as if it had a life of its own, one that it had sucked from its previous residents. Grandma Beattie, Dolly and Dickie were gone, but to Edie it felt like they were still there and watching her every move.
For reasons that she couldn’t explain, but that were based on raw instinct, she was uneasy about asking Lena for help. The old lady’s censorious demeanour was liable to hook out more and more of Edie’s guilt regarding the neglect of her extended family. The state of the house alone was accusation enough and evidence that Dolly had lived and died alone and uncared for. Edie resigned herself to sleeping on the sofa in the clothes that she was wearing. An uncomfortable night seemed like small penance to pay for the years that Dolly had cared for her and Rose in the absence of their mother. Years and solicitude that had been met unequally with rejection and indifference.
As she lay on the lumpy sofa, watching the last of the evening light dwindle through the dirty window, she hoped that the funeral might offer some redemption – that laying Dolly to rest with some dignity and respect might undo the cloying sense of obligation and guilt. She would wear black as a mark of respect and hope that it wouldn’t reflect the flush of hypocrisy that was sure to creep into her skin and show her for the fraud she was.
Rose had arranged for a car, it would arrive at eleven the next day to collect her. Then she would follow the hearse carrying Dolly’s body, encased in its pine-veneered coffin and covered up in flowers. Then it would be over, and she could do what she had to do and put it all behind her – as she had with so many other things
Sleep followed on the wings of this anticipated relief and Edie relaxed into it, her inert form brushed by shadows, cast by the light of passing cars and given form and life by the ghosts of the past that resided amidst the clutter and dirt of Number 17 Coronation Square.