In the Still of the Night

‘You see, she had a heart attack during the night and must have fallen out of bed, lain there for hours, getting colder all the time. Lucky her neighbour had a key and let herself in when she didn’t get an answer at the front door. Otherwise your granny would have died. As it is, the hypothermia complicates the heart problem. She isn’t very well at all.’

‘Do you mean she’s going to die?’ Johnny hoarsely asked.

‘We’ll do our best for her. But she is frail and very old, and she hasn’t been eating properly, for a long time, I’d say.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘For one minute, then you must leave. You can come back tomorrow.’

He saw his grandmother alone. Annie waited, staring out at the driving rain and grey skies. The hospital was a short drive from the forest, surrounded by trees, all leafless now, black wet branches shining.

‘Not a day to die on,’ Johnny said behind her, and he sounded angry.

She looked round at him and wanted to put her arms round him. His face was drawn, pale, lost. He looked like a frightened little boy.

‘Was she conscious?’

He nodded. ‘Just about. She looks terrible, but she was able to ask me to take care of her cat.’ His voice broke. ‘Typical of her. She may be dying – but all that’s on her mind is that damn cat. I’ll have to go to her house before I take you home, Annie, to catch the cat. Do you think your mother would let me bring it back to your house?’

‘Oh, yes, she doesn’t mind cats.’

They drove back to his grandmother’s house in pouring rain. Buried in Epping Forest, one of London’s playgrounds, an ancient forest where English kings had once hunted, Trafalgar House was Victorian, built in 1830 on classic lines, and later ornamented with a battlement along the edge of the roof and a new Gothic wing with a tower. Ramshackle and eccentric in design now, it stood alone, at least ten minutes’ walk from any other house, on a back road through the forest, half-hidden among ancient trees which creaked and wailed in the wind as Johnny pushed open the gate.

Annie was shivering, her clothes saturated. The next-door neighbour had gone now, but she had lit a big fire in the long drawing-room which dominated the ground floor of the house. The trees crowding in on it made the rooms dark and full of shadows.

‘You’re cold. Take off that wet coat, and come and sit by the fire,’ Johnny said, trying the switch of the central light. ‘Damn, the chandelier bulbs have all gone, I’d forgotten. Grandma can’t get up there to change them. She just uses a lamp in here.’ He walked off and turned on a standard lamp, which gave the room a soft pinkish glow.

Johnny turned and took Annie’s coat from her, draped it over a chair, which he stood to one side of the fire, where it soon began to steam.

Annie sank into a deep armchair on the other side of the hearth, stretching her hands out to the flames.

‘You need a hot drink,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll make us some coffee while I look for the cat. It can’t have gone far.’

‘I’ll make the coffee.’ Annie tried to get up but he pushed her down gently.

‘No, you stay in front of the fire. I’ll look out one of my old sweaters for you.’

She watched him go out, her nerves prickling at being left alone in this shadowy room. With Johnny gone she could hear noises. Stiffening, she listened; somebody was creeping up behind her.

She jumped out of the chair, whirled round, but there was nobody there. Her sudden movement dislodged the old lace antimacassar on the arm of the chair; it slithered to the ground, and that made her jump, too.

Everything in the room seemed to be draped with one of these filmy bits of lace – the arms and backs of chairs, the centres of tables. Annie picked up the lace which had fallen and smoothed it back over the arm.

She had never seen anything like this place. It was like a museum. Her eyes searched the corners of the room, which was crowded with objects: mirrors on the walls, paintings, prints, ornaments, mostly dusty and very old. Heavy red brocade curtains, torn and shabby, hung at the windows, and between them fell ancient lace curtains weighted at the hems with little blue beads to make them hang straight; they were moving in the wind, knocking on the glass.

There was a dark red Axminster carpet on the floor, but on top of that lay smaller rugs, spread here and there, on which stood sofas and chairs, none of which matched.

Something shrieked near the window outside. Annie gasped, her heart in her mouth, staring. The long-drawn-out screech came again, and she realised it was a branch scraping along the side of the glass.

Knees sagging, she looked away towards a a litter of photographs in wooden or silver frames on the mantelshelf. Johnny’s face leapt out at her from one of them; she leaned forward to look at it.

There was a woman in the picture; she looked just like Johnny, the same eyes, mouth, hair.

‘My mother.’

Annie turned to look at him as he walked towards her with a sweater over one arm and a tray in his free hand.

He put the tray of coffee down on a table and handed her the sweater. ‘It’ll be miles too big but it will keep you warm.’