The Little One

Chapter Four

James Halliday carried Barbara into the kitchen and laid her down on the sofa. Alan put a cold cloth on her head and waited for her to come round. When she did, she explained how she’d tripped on a toy on the stairs. From the look on Alan’s face, she had a feeling he didn’t believe her.

Margaret had already called the local doctor. By the time he arrived, all the guests apart from Alan had left. The doctor strapped up Barbara’s ankle, observing that it was quite a bad sprain. He suggested that Margaret monitor the situation. If the swelling got worse, Barbara would need to go to hospital for an X-ray. He prescribed painkillers for her ankle and suggested that they use hot and cold compresses to help the swelling go down.

Barbara closed her eyes. She hadn’t told anyone about being pushed. Had she just had too much to drink and imagined it? Maybe it was the noise of the clockwork rabbit hopping down the stairs that had startled her and made her lose her footing.

Alan came to sit beside her. He was concerned, but at the same time he couldn’t help wondering if Barbara had planned this in order to spend a night in the house.

‘Listen, Margaret has kindly said you can stay over. It’s a long drive and you are obviously not in good shape.’

Barbara liked the idea more than he could know. She smiled weakly.

‘That’s awfully nice of her, if it’s not too much trouble.’

Margaret came across and sat by the sofa. ‘You can stay down here in the kitchen,’ she told Barbara. ‘I’ll build up the fire so you will be nice and warm.’

‘I really don’t want to make a fuss,’ Barbara said, sounding pathetic.

Alan was torn. On the one hand he didn’t quite trust Barbara, but on the other he was worried about getting back to London because he had an early start in the morning.

After a few minutes’ thought he said, ‘How would it be if I call tomorrow from London to arrange when I can collect you?’

Barbara nodded and watched as Margaret and Alan went out into the hall.

She then eased herself up. Her ankle did hurt, a little, and she did have a slight headache, but she could easily have gone back with Alan. However, this was a great opportunity to get more information on Margaret.

When Margaret returned, Barbara closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. She could hear her moving around the kitchen, clearing up. Margaret must then have picked up a big thick blanket, because Barbara could feel it being gently laid over her. She opened her eyes and gave a weak smile.

‘Thank you so much. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’

‘That’s all right. I am very happy that you are here. There is a lavatory in the hall just on the left. If you need me during the night, there’s the old bell-pull near the stove. Is there anything you would like?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Goodnight, then,’ said Margaret, closing the door behind her.

Barbara sat up and looked around. It was so warm and cosy in here, if a bit shabby. She listened but could hear nothing. Easing back the blanket, she slowly placed her feet on the stone-flagged floor. Her ankle was slightly swollen, but it really didn’t hurt. She stood up and made her way towards the pantry. Shivering, she helped herself to a couple of sausage rolls. Then she carried them back to the old sofa and drew the blanket around herself.

Barbara must have dozed off, because the fire was much lower when she was woken by the tink-tink-tink of a piano being played, the same notes over and over again. Sitting up, she thought she could hear muffled voices. Was Margaret talking to someone? The piano stopped and then there was silence. She assumed someone else must have stayed over upstairs.

Barbara was woken again by the sound of scraping. Margaret was clearing the grate and making up a fresh fire with big logs and coals. There was a wonderful smell of coffee and bacon.

‘Good morning, Barbara.’ Margaret leaned over her and gently touched her shoulder. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘So much better. I slept really well.’

‘Yes. It’s a comfortable old Chesterfield. I’m making breakfast. Are you hungry?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Barbara sat up and eased her legs round. Her ankle didn’t hurt at all, but she winced as if in pain. She then made a big show of hopping on one foot, gripping the back of a chair before sitting at the table.

‘I thought I heard you playing the piano last night,’ Barbara said.

Margaret turned from the Aga, shaking her head.

‘You must have been mistaken.’

‘It seemed to come from upstairs.’

Shaking her head again, Margaret turned the bacon.

‘How do you like your eggs?’

‘Sunny side up, please,’ Barbara said, helping herself to a slice of toast.

Margaret served breakfast, then asked Barbara if she thought she should be checked over by the hospital.

Barbara shook her head. ‘I’m sure I’ll be OK. I’ll call Alan and ask him to collect me.’ She paused. ‘You have a lovely house.’

‘It was my sister’s,’ said Margaret. ‘She was intending to do it up and then convert it into separate apartments. She planned to sell each of them off and make a large profit. There are three floors. It’s a Gothic monster.’

‘That’s a big project to take on.’

‘Yes, it certainly is. There are also ten acres and a wooded copse behind the house which makes it quite dark. Most of the rooms are closed off, but I will get round to doing something with them one of these days.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

Margaret wiped her lips with a linen napkin.

‘Since my sister died.’

She pushed her chair back as if she didn’t want to discuss it any further and said, ‘I’m going to feed the birds.’

Barbara was left alone, sitting at the table. She’d cleaned her plate, even wiping it with some more toast, and had had two cups of coffee. Now she felt she should start to question Margaret more closely. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

She decided to act friendly and not push for any details. She was very good at teasing out information from people, but time would be against her. If Alan was going to come and collect her soon, she didn’t have very long.

She crossed to a window and looked out. A child’s swing hung from the branches of a massive sprawling oak tree. She saw Margaret shiver, no doubt reacting to the change in temperature.

Barbara went to her handbag and took out her mobile phone. She called Alan but just got his voicemail. She left a message saying that her ankle was very swollen and she could hardly walk but would try him later. Margaret came in just as she was finishing.

‘Alan’s busy doing a voice-over, so he’s not sure when he can come. Is there a train I could catch?’

Margaret said she wouldn’t hear of it until Barbara’s ankle was 100 per cent better.

Barbara thanked her, but then said, ‘Do you know, a strange thing happened last night. I saw a clockwork rabbit hopping from stair to stair.’

Margaret smiled, but made no reply. Instead she said, ‘I’m thinking of making an Irish stew. Would you like that?’

She went to help Barbara sit back on the sofa.

‘I use lots of fresh vegetables with the lamb and potatoes. I let them simmer for a couple of hours.’

‘Sounds delicious...’

‘Of course, I’m nowhere near as good a cook as my husband was.’

‘Your husband was French, wasn’t he?’

Margaret nodded and went to a dresser. She opened a drawer and took out a framed picture.

‘This is Armande. He was an actor.’

Barbara looked at the stunningly handsome dark-eyed man. He was in period costume, wearing a frilled shirt with a velvet waistcoat and tight-fitting trousers with riding boots.

‘Gosh, he’s so good-looking.’

‘Yes. He was also a genuine, kind, loving man. I fell in love with him as soon as we met. He was everything I could ever have hoped for. He proposed to me after only a few months.’

Barbara made all the right noises as Margaret showed her more photographs. This time they were arranged in albums. There were lots of pictures of the two of them on their wedding day. They were not only a breathtakingly beautiful pair, but they were also obviously very much in love.

Barbara sighed. ‘I’ve always dreamed of meeting someone like him. I seem to have a wretched ability to go for the wrong type. I’ve been constantly let down. In fact, only recently...’

Suddenly she felt tearful and found herself explaining how, in the last few days, she had been dumped by her boyfriend, lost her job and then been told to leave by her landlady. The only good thing was how kind Alan had been in allowing her to stay.

‘What work do you do?’

Whoops! Barbara sniffed and blew her nose. She was clever enough to think quickly and repeated that she was a writer.

‘What kind of writing?’ Margaret persisted.

‘Oh, novels, though I haven’t had any published yet.’

‘I write,’ Margaret said, smiling. ‘Well, I want to write. I think I have a strong story, but I’ve never managed to get it down.’

‘Maybe we can discuss it,’ said Barbara with interest. ‘If I can help at all, I’d love to be able to repay your kindness.’

Margaret closed her albums and looked thoughtful before saying, ‘Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell someone. Not right now. But I just keep thinking that if I were to write it down I would feel better.’

‘Is it to do with no longer working as an actress?’

Margaret gave her a cool glance.

‘No. My career is of no interest.’

She put the albums back in the drawer and closed it, before heading to the Aga to prepare the stew.

‘Your husband died, didn’t he?’

Again the cold glance.

‘Yes. I couldn’t write about that. If I think about it, I get so emotional I can hardly function. All that would happen is the pain would return. The memory of the day I was told Armande had died still burns inside me. Sometimes I wake at night and I live through it all over again. It was so hard to believe that he would never take me in his arms again. Never kiss me. Knowing I was never going to see him again, it felt as if I’d been swallowed by a whale.’

‘A whale?’

Margaret suddenly gave an infectious childlike giggle.

‘That’s how I explained it to my therapist. I felt I was trapped inside a whale, swilling around with the water and the dead fish. I was unable to get out, always in the dark and yet warm. Every time the whale opened its massive jaws I tried. I thought that if I could just swim out to safety, Armande would still be alive.’

She had a puzzled expression on her beautiful face. No longer aware of how attentive Barbara was, she appeared to have moved into a world of her own. Her eyes closed and she remained silent.

Finally, Barbara said, ‘Did you ever get out from the belly of the whale?’

Margaret’s manner changed suddenly. Now angry, she clenched her fists.

‘I didn’t want to get out! I didn’t want to break through the heat and escape out through its jaws, because then I would be alive. In its belly I was dying.’

She gave another odd laugh, shaking her head.

‘I was sent to a mental hospital. My sister arranged it. Ghastly place. I suppose I did swim out of its belly, because I was only there for a few months. I went back to work.’

She turned to her pan, picked up a big wooden spoon and stirred the contents.

‘Did you feel you came to terms with the death of your husband?’

Margaret waved the spoon as she spoke.

‘No. He was the love of my life. Until I’m buried beside him, the pain will continue. I exist because I have to. That is, until I can join him.’

‘Have you ever contemplated suicide?’

‘It’s impossible for me to do that.’

Margaret seasoned and stirred the stew, then tasted it and smiled.

‘Mmm... that’s good. A bit more salt, then I’ll leave it simmering.’ She paused for a while before saying, ‘It’s going to snow. I can always tell. The clouds are dark and full. I do love a stew on a cold wintry day.’

‘I should get dressed,’ Barbara said.

‘You don’t have to if you don’t want. You can rest up and maybe after lunch see how you feel. I have to run a few errands in the village.’

The sound of the phone, which was mounted on a wall in the kitchen, startled them both.

Margaret answered, then turned to Barbara.

‘It’s the doctor, enquiring how you’re feeling. Do you want to talk to him?’

‘Thank you,’ Barbara said, and hobbled to the receiver.

She then explained that her ankle was still painful but the swelling had gone down considerably. There was, the doctor agreed, no need for her to go to hospital.

The two women were silent for a while, then Margaret spoke.

‘The phone has such a loud ring because it’s the only one in the house. This way, if I’m upstairs I can hear it.’

‘Don’t you have a mobile?’ Barbara asked.

‘No. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed, but there is no television either.’

Barbara was surprised.

‘Don’t you feel lonely out here on your own?’

‘No, I’m never lonely. Are you?’

Barbara was taken aback, but before she could reply Margaret left the kitchen. Alone now, she pondered the question. She’d never really considered what she felt about her life. She was miserable a lot of the time, that was certainly true. And she was telling the truth about wanting to write, though she didn’t have a clue what kind of novel. She sighed. If she was honest, she could hardly remember a time when she hadn’t felt lonely.