The House that Jack Built – Chapter Two – Foundations
The turf peeled away revealing the black soil beneath. In the first spadeful – not that anyone noticed – was a scrap of ribbon let fall by a careless maid who once attended the fair on this very spot. She should never have trusted the promises of her sailor. Next came a penny from Sir Thomas Wyatt’s pocket. He dropped it when he pulled out gold coins to bribe his flagging supporters as his rebellion against Mary Tudor faltered. Further digging turned over the blood, sweat and tears of yet more thwarted revolutionaries: Lord Audley, the Yorkists, Jack Cade, Wat Tyler and Jack Straw. Over the centuries, so many came to dream their impossible dreams on Blackheath’s open space, lost in blue sky thinking that the capital was theirs for the taking. They believed that this was the day when society would change for the better. They were, as axe and sword went on to prove, mistaken.
The spades dug down to more primitive times. The cutting edge severed in two a discarded leather sole from a Dane’s boot. That bloody-handed man abandoned it, a casualty of the long march from Canterbury where they’d done away with the archbishop.
Go deeper yet, I begged from the rolled paper in which I gestated, tucked under the architect’s arm. I need my foundations to reach further back if I am to stand steady.
One digger unearthed a fragment of a stone age tool. The pick was fashioned from antlers by a practical man squatting in his round house on a cold winter’s evening. Chucking it aside, not caring what it was, the labourers carried on until they passed through the thin level of human habitation and reached down to that of the terrible lizards.
Jenny
Nights were never easy.
Jenny lay in bed, telling herself that she was in her perfect bedroom, in a perfect house, safe from intruders.
But sleep still evaded her, whisking around the corner just when she thought she’d caught up. It was probably the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. Each house had its own time signature of beats and clicks; this one was no different. She could hear the pipes settling, the wash of water as someone used a distant tap. Overhead, though, footsteps paced. One-two-three, one-two-three. It had the pulse of the waltz, relentless and driving. She imagined silken skirts swirling as ladies leant back in the arms of dark-suited men, throats extended, vulnerable. She shuddered. Was Bridget’s bedroom up there? Or Jonah’s. She thought not. Her landlady had said it was only attics. Maybe it wasn’t coming from up there but just sounded like it did?
Jenny put the pillow over her head trying to muffle the steps but it didn’t work. Her brain was now worrying over the unexplained. She was still that child who lay rigid with terror, scared of the monsters under the bed – because she knew – oh, she knew – they were real.
Just go out into the corridor and find out which room it’s coming from.
Frustrated by herself, she threw off the duvet and slipped into her mules. This is the bit in horror movies where you scream at the ditsy female character to go back into the room, she thought with dark humour.
But this isn’t a horror flick. I’m in a feel-good girl-gets-a-break movie, she decided firmly. Anyway, I’m not going into the attics, just listening from the corridor.
She opened her door. A table lamp supplied a little low lighting. Bridget had said she left it on so that houseguests could find their way around in the dark. She didn’t want anyone taking a headlong dive down the stairs.
Jonah appeared at the far end of the corridor, heading for the bathroom in a towelling dressing gown. His room evidently didn’t have the same luxury of an en suite.
‘Are you all right, Jenny? Need something?’
She pointed upwards.
‘What?’
She beckoned him closer. Couldn’t he hear it? Actually, she couldn’t hear it out here either. He approached looking a little confused.
‘What’s the matter?’
She pulled him into her room.
‘Hey!’
Shaking her head at his protest that she was ravishing him, she pointed upwards.
Nothing. The steps had stopped.
That was awkward.
She dashed for her iPad. Waltz on the ceiling.
‘A waltz?’
Steps in a three-four pattern.
‘A three-four pattern?’
Give me strength! She shoved her fingers through her mass of black hair. She’d let it loose for bed and knew it must look like a wild halo around her head and shoulders. Time signature. 1 - 2 - 3. She mimicked the movement.
‘Jenny, I can’t hear anything.’ No wonder he was looking at her like she was crazy.
She bit her lip and signed ‘sorry’, a closed hand circling at her chest.
Jonah repeated the sign back. ‘That’s “sorry”, isn’t it?’
She nodded.
‘It’s OK. You probably just heard a bird. They nest up there. It freaks me out sometimes when I hear them scratching on the tiles. Can’t shake the idea that they’re rats.’
But birds don’t waltz, neither do rats for that matter.
Ghost?
He read her message and had the gall to laugh. ‘Probably. The ghost of Admiral Jack come to haunt us.’ He made a spectral arm flapping gesture to show he wasn’t taking her seriously. ‘He was a nasty piece of work according to Bridget’s history. You should ask her. It would be like him to do something so spiteful.’
OK, so Jonah was the wrong person to ask. In fact, she couldn’t blame him as it had been her to drag him in here.
She signed ‘thanks’ and ‘goodnight’.
‘You really OK? Don’t want someone to give you a cuddle? I’m volunteering in case you’re wondering.’ He put his hand up.
She shook her head vigorously. Maybe on another occasion she’d be unnerved by his suggestion, but right now she was only conscious of her own embarrassment.
He grinned with boyish charm. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying. Goodnight.’
He closed the door as he left.
Jenny thumped her forehead. How embarrassing had that been? She thought she’d managed quite well on her introduction to her new home but she’d spoiled it all by sending Jonah totally mixed signals. He’d either think she was cracked or that she made a habit of pouncing on men in corridors dressed only in night shorts and a Tee. She looked down. She didn’t even have a bra on so she’d have been bouncing all over the place.
Kicking off her mules, she got back into bed. The house was silent now, pipes settled, footsteps ceased. Bloody brilliant. Her phone told her it was eleven-thirty. She switched it to night mode and pulled the duvet up to her chin.
At two in the morning, the steps started again. One-two-three. One-two-three.
This time she didn’t go and look.
Yawning, Jenny entered the kitchen carrying her small box of food supplies. Daylight made the ghostly waltz less frightening. In fact, she’d