George had been born here, had been vague and new here. He had pushed his pudgy hands across the chessboard tiles of the hall and closed his lids to ceilings adorned with medallions. As he grew, doors opened without argument, the old window in the morning room held on the first latch so that a small breeze rippled the nets, and whenever he came back from a trip, the house swelled around him, buoyed by his presence. But it never warmed to me.
I sat on the wide sill of the bay window, watching rain patter on the glass. He had been away for two months now, and I was aware of the whole house around me, of the empty space lingering at every doorway, spreading across the walnut floors. I felt the fireplace at my side, its tiles of mussel-shell blue, and beyond it, the dining room with its yawning table and snuffed-out chandeliers.
***
“Do you recognise the plates?”
George’s face had glowed gold in the candlelight. The rest of the house sat in darkness, and I could almost hear the rooms closing up, folding away to nothing.
“Recognise them?” he said, glancing down.
“Yes.”
He shrugged, apologetic.
“They’re a wedding gift.”
He smiled, eyes shining. “Ah, of course.”
Silver clinked on china.
“I need you to know I’m heading to the recruiting office tomorrow morning.”
I looked at my plate, at the flowers revealing themselves beneath the gravy. “Please, George.”
“This isn’t a choice, it’s duty. What would I do if I stayed here?”
“Be with me,” I said, as crocuses and snowdrops bloomed.
“Darling, you know I can’t.”
“But what if—”
“I’m sorry.”
I looked up. His taut features softened in the heat from the flames, and I thought that if I touched his cheek, my finger would leave its ridged print on his skin.
“I’ll get the coffee,” I said, moving away into the corridor, my footsteps summoning the other rooms into being.
***
When the rain broke, I took my coat from the little porch; its lifeless, blue body huddled next to Georges’ grey one. The sandy path stretched away from me, winding through a sea of grass before sloping down to ancient elms where rooks nested and cried out through the night. Sometimes I lay awake and listened to them, finding solace in their aching voices as they hung unanswered in the air. I heard them the day of our wedding, in the beech trees that huddled round the church. I’d thought them bad luck, but George said they brought good fortune, and it was only when they abandoned the rookery that there was something to fear. He told me a group of them was known as a ‘parliament’, and we had laughed at the thought of them perched on branches, debating how rook society should be run.
I stepped off the path and walked in the other direction towards a rougher patch of land where we’d planted carrots, potatoes and onions. Their sharp scent filled the warm air as they ripened, moons waiting to be pulled from the earth. When I stood here, it was okay to mourn his absence, to plant my feet in the recently disturbed soil and let tears run down my face. I could tell myself it was only the onions.
That night, fires rekindled after I beat them out, and doors creaked ajar after their handles were twisted shut.
“It’s not my fault,” I cried, my small voice drifting through the rooms and up the coiling staircase. “I tried to get him to stay.”
With only the light of a candle, the bedroom walls—by day a soft blue— became a washed-out grey, and the coiffed figures who rode horses and lounged against trees had disappeared entirely, had ridden deep into the walls and found shelter in distant cottages. I was truly alone.
I rested my arms on the sill and looked out into the garden: darkness had snatched the vegetable patch and the small iron table, but I knew if I were to walk down there, it would give them back to me. A buck moon, full and yellow, rose behind the trees, and as I stared, I remembered it was its own thing, distant and orbiting, not some decoration hammered into the ceiling of sky. And there were other things too, weren’t there? Beyond the trees was a butcher’s and a grocer’s and a shop that sold hats and strings of pearls; and beyond that, the sea, forever braving the French coast then running away again; and beyond that, the cities and the mud and the bands of men.
A lone rook cawed, both mournful and pathetic, and I felt my usual pang of sympathy. Another called out, louder and fiercer, and again I sympathised. Then a whole chorus began, screeching and chaotic, a parliament of yelling suits and calls for order. Fear shot through me. There was a rushing, swooping sound as they flew from the trees, hundreds of them jet black against the moon, leaving behind tangled nests and bad fortune.
“Come back!” I called, as their shapes shrank to nothing.
“Come back!”
My hand burned on the bannister as I hurried down the stairs. When I reached the hall, the front door was already open. Grey light crept over the threshold, reaching out to glass tables, silvered mirrors and clock faces that read midnight. The doors to the other rooms were still shut, but when the wind blew, their handles rattled, urgent and determined. I grabbed my coat from the rack, draped it around my shoulders and ran into the garden.
The trees were quiet as I approached, but I didn’t stop until I was under their dark canopies, the empty rookery above me. They weren’t coming back.
“They never migrate,” George had said, his own hair rook-like with its black sheen. “Some do, further north, but not these.”
We had sat here only a few months ago, a gingham blanket rolled out beneath us, the spring sun at our backs. George spoke of the war then, but it didn’t seem real when surrounded by flasks of tea and plates of sandwiches and the house looking like a wedding cake, its white front piped and glistening.
“Tell me more about the rooks,” I had said, leaning back on my elbows, listening to the soft beat of wings.
Now, the house was a ghost, bright and strange in the moonlight, and I imagined it unlatching at the side, its grand facade arcing across the path, its space neatly divided into rooms full of dressers and desks and lamps that were cold to the touch. George was moving between the rooms, passing through doorways to the parlour, the dining room, the kitchen, the hall—his tall figure forever wandering. I shut my eyes for a moment, breathed in the night air, then took small steps back up the path.
The lion’s head gleamed; the hinge clamped between its sharp teeth like prey. Risking a bite, I rapped it against the plate. No answer. The house had shut me out. I sank down, my back against the heavy door, the arched portico above me. A dull grey was creeping onto the horizon, and I watched with no awareness of time as lilac streaked and the sun spilled over the trees. George once told me his favourite time of day was early morning because everything flared like struck matches, and I imagined the house at my back, its windows full of fire and rage.
“Ma’am?”
I blinked my eyes open. The sky was bright blue, and the sun was high. I must have fallen asleep.
“Ma’am?”
A boy stood before me—he couldn’t have been older than fifteen. He was dressed head to foot in khaki green, and a belt was clasped at his waist. In his hand was a brown envelope. I stood up.
“I have a telegram for a Mrs. Braddock.”
“I’m Mrs. Braddock,” I said, holding out a hand and smoothing my coat with the other.
He squinted as if trying to see me better, then handed over the letter.
I ran my fingers across the scrawled address, smudging the pencil. I considered leaving it unopened, propping it up on one of the tables to sit and gather dust, its words unread and unrealised. But that wouldn’t do. I watched the boy until he disappeared round the bend of the drive, then ripped at the seal.
They regretted to inform me.
The sun burned at the back of my neck, and small birds chirped and whistled.
They regretted to inform me.
There were the sounds of car horns from the town, of horse hooves and feet on paving slabs.
They regretted to inform me.
I beat my fists on the door until my knuckles hurt, then slumped my weight against it, hands over my face to block out the sun and its garish, thoughtless light.
“Please,” I whispered, although to whom I wasn’t sure.
There was a clicking sound, a familiar twist of metal; the door opened, and the house embraced me.
Sarah lives in England where she works in education. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in publications such as Writers’ Forum and Lucent Dreaming, and in 2020 she was the winner of Writing Magazine’s Open Short Story Competition. She recently collaborated with a group of other writers to create a collection of dark short stories, revelling in the opportunity to dabble in speculative fiction.
Published 2/14/24