18 June 2012

'It looks like a pile of crap now, but in a few months' time this pile of crap will be home sweet home. Hey, what am I talking about? It is home, just not a sweet one yet.' Jonah turned to me, grinning widely, that crooked smile you just had to love.

'Hmm, I suppose. You sure know how to turn anything sunny side up eh?' I sighed. I wasn't sure of this place at all. It was a magnificent old shell, a rusty, rotting Dutch Colonial corpse with a few shutters hanging off here and there.

It was set against the cold, November sky that only New England knew, bare trees clawing at the heavens, unkempt gardens sprawling about with old apple trees and oaks. The oldest of the lot overhung the river at the back, a frayed bit of rope hanging off it.

'Just close your eyes and imagine it,' he gushed, hands sprawled out in front of him, framing our new lot. 'The boards stripped and painted buttermilk, the shutters all pinned up again and glossy black. The doorframes and railings white as snow, rust free. The stone steps scrubbed within an inch of their lives. Nice new slate on the roof, all those annex windows up there reglazed,' he rushed over to the front steps. 'And a big old welcome mat with a St. Bernard draped over it.'

He came back beside me, putting his arm over my shoulders. 'The lawns manicured, the beds weeded with honeysuckle, sweet pea and roses climbing up round the ground floor windows. The apple trees laden with fruit in the fall, we could put a tyre swing on that old oak for the baby,' he added, sliding a hand protectively over my stomach.

'Imagine it. Imagine how wonderful it'll look in the holidays, warmth from the fire glowing out of the windows, crisp snow on the ground, hanging off the trees. In the summer we can sit out and drink lemonade while the kids muck about. It'll be wonderful. We just need to put some work into it.'

'I suppose.' I sighed, smiling back and shaking my head.

'Besides, it's not like we're moving straight into a building site. The rooms inside are pretty decent, we just need to jazz them up a bit. Fresh paint, carpet, furniture. Maybe knock a few walls in.'

'Ok. I'll believe you. Just let's get in there my feet are killing me.' I waddled towards the front door, five months pregnant and no idea about what was to come. 'Jonah Hynds you could sell sand to an Arab.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 'There's the old boxes from the attic, honey.' he puffed, laying three heavy boxes by me on the floor.

'You want to play fort? Isn't that a game for ten year olds?' I grinned mischievously.

'Very funny, you.' he sighed as he sunk onto the sofa. 'No, I want you to check through them, see if there's anything worth keeping. It'll keep you busy.'

'And what makes you think I'm not busy?'

'The fact you're making a patchwork quilt for the baby. If you had important stuff to do you wouldn't be doing that.'

'This is important, it's heritage!'

'Well, heritage can wait. We're making a home here sweetie.' Jonah grunted, getting up and rubbing his back again, taking up his tool belt.

'Oh look lively Hynds! You're twenty-eight not a hundred!' I called after him, pulling the boxes over and rifling through them. Mostly old papers and ledgers from the twenties, nothing worth keeping. But in the third one there were old tea tins to be opened.

With an explosion of dust and mustiness the first's treasures we're revealed. An old newspaper cutting of a handsome young couple in front of the house. 'Local doctor renovates town's oldest and most expensive historical treasure.'

Sifting through it there were other photos and letters, keepsakes of a past time. A picture of the pair on their wedding day, the fair bride Amelia and her dashing husband Doctor Rowland Faxton. Letters to the bride's mother that would make for later reading. A silver baby's rattle. The order of service for Mrs Faxton's funeral.

Curiously, in any photograph they were just so young. A rather arty shot of Amelia reading in the garden amongst gardenias and bluebells. The Doctor in his study. The pair out by the sea for a day. But never the two of them in old age. Never either of them in old age. Peculiar.

The next tin presented its secrets in rather a similar fashion, dust tickling my nose and eyes. Inside more photos of the Doctor, this time with another woman and a child in front of the house. The back had been inscribed, 'Row, George and I, returning to our dear home.' There were more of the boy, playing on a tyre swing over the river, some of this new woman presumably the second Mrs Faxton baking or sewing in front of the fire.

Doctor's reports, postcards, drawings by the boy and more letters to read. One sketch was entitled 'Simon' showing a little boy, very like the Doctor. 'Well, Baba,' I addressed our child. 'What a strange bit of history we've wandered into.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I sat up, dripping in sweat. The trees outside scratched at the leaky window pane in the storm. There was no chance of sleep tonight as nightmares plagued me and Jonah became more distant.

He was obsessed with the house, fixing it, making it a home, raising our kids here. It was all he ever talked about these days, like it was seeping in, infecting him like the mould that ate away at the attic. No, no sleep for me tonight.

I wrapped up and trundled down to the the kitchen for some coffee. As I opened the fridge door the room was illuminated, lighting up the two tea tins on the table. I may as well have something to do now I'm up. The clock read 3 am and I brewed the coffee, baby kicking in my stomach. 'Sorry to wake you Baba,' I yawned. 'Sorry pet.'

Sitting down at the table I opened the boxes and began reading the letters, articles and reports. As I read on a chill began spreading up my spine and the baby kicked furiously. 'I know, honey, I'm sorry I can't help it.' I whispered, only just as a cold wet hand gripped my shoulder. I gasped and jerked around to the light of the fridge. Nothing.

Shaking myself, I read on. Each sordid detail of this house's inky past revealed before me. Hand on stomach I read through it all, as that chill spread through me again, baby in hysterics in my womb.

'I love you Mama.' the kitchen whispered.

I dropped my coffee mug from my lips, coffee splattering the opened letters and the table.

'I love you Mama. You don't love me but I love you.' it came again.

'But I do love you Baba.' I replied.

'I love you Mama.'

'Baba? Is that you? Baba?'

'I love you Mama. You don't love me but I love you.' whoever it was was sobbing now. 'Why don't you love me Mama? I love you.'

'Who are you?' I could hear taps running, gushing into the bath or the sink. The thundering was getting louder and the baby was kicking furiously.

'I love you Mama. Please Mama. Love me back. No Mama.'

'Who are you?' I called, louder this time and writhing in pain from the kicks.

'No Mama. Please no. No Mama! No!' a bloodcurdling scream ran through the house, whooshing everywhere, filling every space in this old relic. I huddled under the table, hands over ears, baby in fits as papers flew across the room and utensils clanged on their hooks. The windows and back door were forced wide, the door creaking and banging on its hinges. The drawers were flung open, cutlery crashing everywhere and plates joining them in magnificent, splintered explosions.

'Freya?' I could hear Jonah call, fumbling around and rushing down the stairs. 'Freya?' He stumbled into the kitchen and forced the windows and doors shut, the sudden calm deafening to my ears.

'What in the name of... What... What the hell were you thinking?' he shouted as I cowered further under the table. The baby kicked again, still going mad.

'It wasn't me. There's something not right about this place Jonah.' I squealed as he dragged me out, shaking me.

'There's something not right with you! This place is perfectly lovely and you've always hated it.' he yelled in my face, shaking me before drawing me in. The baby kicked feebly in protest. 'You scared the hell out of me.'

'It's not me Jonah. It's this place, we've got to get out.' I whispered, no longer just afraid of the house but the man holding me. It had him. I gasped in pain again, holding my stomach. The baby wasn't moving. 'Jonah, something's wrong with the baby.'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I was slowly packing away little vests and socks. Perhaps we'd use them again someday. All the baby's stuff was stowed, alongside mine. I began packing his, staring blankly ahead. Blank, that's all I had been, save for the fear that gripped me every night.

Jonah came whistling up the stairs, pipe and spanner in hand to fix the bathroom sink. He stopped at our bedroom door. 'Freya? What are you doing?'

'We have to get out of here Jonah. I've said it before and I'll say it again, it's just not right. If you read those letters and whatnot you'd understand.' I murmured, folding a pair of his jeans and placing them in a suitcase.

He sighed in frustration in the doorway before thundering over and ripping them out of the case. 'We. Are not. Leaving.'

'Jonah, you can't ignore it any more. That night, I didn't do it. I didn't do it, the storm didn't do it. Something else did it. And don't pretend you don't hear the taps at night.'

'I don't Freya. It's all you. Ever since we lost the baby, it's been you. If you hadn't have been so wreckless that night we might just have little feet running about here.'

'It wasn't me. It was that thing, that's what lost us the baby.'

'Oh here we go again. Stop it all ready, just stop it.' he cried.

'Jonah. Please. This house isn't good for us.' I tried reasoning, fat tears rolling down my cheeks.

'Oh don't pretend this is about us. It's your own personal agenda, Freya. Don't think those crocodile tears will work with me.'

'See. It's got you! The house has you!'

'What the hell are you talking about? You've gone mad Freya, you've really gone...' he screamed in fury, kicking the bed and turning his suitcase over.

'Fine

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