Barbara was disconcerted to realize that Margaret had locked the kitchen door after she left.
The phone rang, breaking into the silence. It was Alan. Barbara explained she would be staying over another night because of the snow. Alan was relieved, as he didn’t feel like driving to collect her.
‘Just don’t go nosing around. She’s a very private lady,’ he warned, and rang off.
The old house creaked and moaned. Barbara could hear the rattle of pipes, but then she heard something else.
‘Stay in your room and behave yourself, do you hear me?’
Barbara sat bolt upright. There were running footsteps, followed by silence. She was startled when the key turned in the locked kitchen door.
Margaret came in looking very agitated and pocketed the key.
‘Is everything all right?’ Barbara asked.
‘Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?’ Margaret snapped, then she began to bang around the kitchen, preparing supper. Her radical mood change was unnerving.
Sitting by the fire as Margaret busied herself cooking, Barbara was certain she heard soft footsteps running above her. She wondered again if there was someone else in the house. Was it the person who had pushed her down the stairs?
‘Sometimes in old houses you hear strange noises,’ she ventured.
‘It’s the hot-water pipes,’ Margaret said sharply.
Again the footsteps sounded above her and Barbara looked up to the ceiling. There was an old slatted wooden airer, with a rope attached. It was shaking, just a fraction.
‘Watch the rice for me. I won’t be a minute,’ Margaret said, then hurried out.
Barbara pressed her ear against the locked door. She distinctly heard Margaret running up the stairs. She could also hear her talking, but could not make out what she was saying. Then came lighter steps and a door slamming shut. She only just made it back to the armchair by the fire before Margaret returned.
For a moment there was silence, then both of them were aware of a hissing noise coming from the Aga.
‘You didn’t check on the rice,’ Margaret said angrily, taking the pan to the sink.
‘I’m so sorry. Let me clean up.’
‘No, I’m doing it.’
Barbara sat back in the chair. She was beginning to think that perhaps there was something wrong with her host. She was so hostile all of a sudden.
‘I need to use the bathroom,’ Barbara said, standing up.
‘Use the one on this floor, please, and check the water flushes properly when you pull the chain.’
Barbara made her way into the dark hall. Just as she was opening the door to the bathroom she heard the click-click and then the high-pitched song:
It was the clockwork rabbit, slowly hopping from one stair to the next. The toy gradually wound down and fell on its side. Its highpitched voice became distorted as it repeated ‘hop, hop, hop’.
Barbara picked up the rabbit. It was worn in places. Its ears were minus bits of fur and its white tail was decidedly the worse for wear. It was also heavier than she’d expected. It had a frilly blue dress with a tear where the key poked through.
Barbara went into the lavatory and stood the rabbit on the floor. Its bright beady eyes looked at her and it held up its front paws as if ready to dance. After flushing as instructed, Barbara returned to the kitchen with the rabbit.
‘Look what I found on the stairs,’ she said.
Margaret dropped the glass bowl in her hands. It broke into a hundred pieces on the stone-flagged floor. She snatched the rabbit from Barbara’s hands and ran out of the kitchen.
Barbara could hear her footsteps on the landing. Doors slammed and there was shouting.
Not sure what to do, she found a brush and pan and swept up the broken glass. As she tipped the pieces into the bin, Margaret came back. Her cheeks were flushed and she was obviously distressed.
‘Are you all right?’ Barbara asked.
‘No, I’m not, but please don’t talk to me. I have to go out for a while.’
Margaret grabbed her big coat and, even though it was snowing heavily, she went out into the garden. From the window Barbara could see her, standing with her back to the house, hunched up. She was clearly crying, because her shoulders were heaving up and down.
Barbara fetched her own coat. Buttoning it up against the chill, she went out to join Margaret.
‘Please, whatever is upsetting you, share it with me.’
‘No. Leave me alone.’
‘It’s freezing out here. At least come back inside.’
‘NO!’
Barbara put her arms around Margaret, who resisted at first but then leaned against her and started to speak.
‘If you only knew how much I want to share what is happening in this house. But I can’t. I’m so scared. If I tell you I would be sent back to that place. I’m not mad, I’m not. I so badly want it to end, but I promised.’
Barbara said nothing. She simply held her, until Margaret had calmed down, and then together they returned to the kitchen. She helped Margaret off with her wet coat and settled her into a chair by the fire.
Margaret sat staring into the flames, her hands clasped together. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with weeping, but she was calmer. Shaking her head, she apologized for the way she had behaved.
Barbara found a half-bottle of brandy and poured a big measure.
‘Here, drink this. You must be so cold.’
‘You have no idea how cold I am. Thank you.’
As Barbara busied herself finishing their supper, Margaret sat silently sipping her brandy. Barbara wondered again if there was someone else living in the upstairs rooms. It could be a mad relative. Perhaps they were violent... Again she remembered that push down the stairs.
‘Supper’s ready,’ she called a few minutes later.
Margaret slowly got up, placing her empty brandy glass on the table. Her shoulders sagged.
‘It’s probably not as good as you intended. I think the rice is overcooked,’ Barbara said, serving out their meal.
Margaret gave a wan smile. She picked up her fork, took a small mouthful and poured herself a glass of wine. They continued to eat in silence, Margaret picking at her food but continuing to drink. Suddenly she focused her attention on Barbara.
‘Tell me about your family.’
Barbara cocked her head to one side. She explained that there was not a lot to tell. She had been an only child, her mother falling pregnant in her late forties. Her parents were moderately wealthy and lived in a very comfortable house in Pinner, but her father had died when she was seven. His death had left her mother deeply depressed and unable to cope with a young daughter. She in turn had died when Barbara was thirteen.
‘So I went to live with my aunt in Harrogate. I couldn’t wait to leave Yorkshire. Then I lived in a horrible shared flat with six other students and I had to get work to supplement my college fees.’
Barbara had not been asked about her life before. Now, as she talked, she realized that she’d never had a loving relationship with anyone. To her astonishment, she started crying as a terrible wave of sadness swept over her.
From being the comforter, she became comforted as Margaret got up and put her arms around her.
Barbara sniffed and wiped her eyes on the napkin.
‘I don’t know why I’m crying. I seem to have done a lot of that lately. I’ve never really thought about what a non-existent family I had...’
‘Do you want a family of your own?’ Margaret asked, pouring more wine.
‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s just never been a choice I was in a position to make. I never met the right person like you did.’
‘So you’re all alone?’