Lynda Plante - The Little One

‘I think I’ll have a walk. Why don’t you come to church with me? It’s not far.’

Barbara refused, saying that it would not be a good idea in case she slipped, especially as her ankle was healing.

‘I’ve left sweaters and a tracksuit with some underwear in the bathroom for you to use,’ Margaret said, pulling on her wellingtons.

‘Thank you. I really appreciate it. You’re so kind.’

As soon as Margaret left, Barbara hurried up to the bathroom and ran the tap. The water was not that hot, but it was warm enough.

Dressed in a green sweater and the grey tracksuit left for her, Barbara made her way to the stairs leading up to the second floor. There was the same rather threadbare carpet. The sun streamed through the windows, making long shafts of light. Barbara peeked into two rooms that were clearly used for storage. At the end of the landing were double doors painted white with wooden doorknobs.

Barbara winced as the doors creaked loudly, then they swung open easily. They revealed stripped pine floors and a large blackboard with sticks of chalk held in a net bag. There were simple sums on the board. Around the walls were childish paintings in bright colours. A desk with a small chair was placed in front of the blackboard. Exercise books were stacked neatly beside a row of sharpened pencils. An upright piano was against a wall, music left open on the stand.

There was nothing frightening here, although it was a little strange. She went out and closed the door. Leading off the same corridor was another small winding staircase up to the third floor. There was a child’s gate across the stairs. They were uncarpeted, but stained in whitewash that looked as if it had been done many years ago.

Barbara wondered if these stairs led up to whoever she suspected was living in the house. Just as she was about to unhook the child’s gate, she heard the sound of a car drawing up. She panicked and hurried back along the landing.

She ran downstairs and opened the front door just as the milkman was making his way down the drive. He turned and waved, apologizing for being late. Barbara smiled and bent to pick up the milk, but then she hesitated. The footsteps she’d seen the previous night had melted. The snowman was just a little pile of slush.

Returning to the kitchen, Barbara checked her mobile, but the battery flickered and she got no signal. Of course Margaret wouldn’t have a charger. She tried the landline, but there was no connection.

It was strange to be so isolated. No mobile, no telephone, no television, no newspapers even. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d been without these everyday things. No people, no contact with anyone apart from Margaret.

Surprisingly, she was beginning to like the feeling.

‘I’m home,’ Margaret called, coming into the kitchen with her cheeks rosy red once more. She threw off her coat and warmed her hands in front of the fire.

‘The trains will be running again tomorrow morning. There’s one at ten that goes directly to Waterloo.’

She turned to Barbara, pulling off her hat, and added, ‘I might come with you.’

‘Oh, that would be nice.’

Margaret gave her a radiant smile.

‘Yes. I have made some big decisions. First, I need to settle some important business.’

She pulled the big armchair closer to the fire.

‘I talked to Alan this morning.’

Barbara began to feel worried.

‘The vicar is such a sweetheart and let me use his phone. Anyway, I told Alan that you’d catch the train.’

‘Oh, good.’

There was an awkward pause. Then Margaret said, ‘I also spoke to Kevin. He’s back earlier than he expected from his photoshoot.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. And he said that would mean it wasn’t convenient for you to stay on any longer with them. He’d be grateful if you moved your things out.’

Barbara sank down on the sofa as Margaret went on.

‘It’s such a little house. I often went there for dinner with them. Such nice people, and very good cooks.’

‘Yes.’

There was another pause.

Barbara began to wonder if Kevin had said something else.

‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’

Barbara flushed.

‘Er, yes, I am actually.’

‘And you’re planning to do a series about famous soap stars from the past, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you had an ulterior motive for coming here.’

‘No, that isn’t true.’

Margaret looked at her directly and Barbara couldn’t meet her dark bright eyes.

‘You want to write about me, don’t you?’

‘No, I really don’t.’

Margaret gave a soft laugh, then said, ‘I sort of suspected you were up to something.’

Barbara burst into tears.

‘It’s all right. Meeting James, Alan and the others that night made me even more certain. There is no way I could even think of returning to show business. The truth is, I never really fitted in. I did enjoy the fame for a while, but then it was hideous and intrusive. Losing Armande and then my sister and...’

She stopped and sighed deeply.

Barbara wiped her face with the back of her hand. She felt dreadful. She didn’t know what to do or say.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Margaret went to fill the kettle.

‘Margaret, I’m really sorry to have lied to you. I’ll leave tomorrow. And I promise I won’t even consider writing anything. I have never known anyone like you. You have been so kind.’

‘Good. I was hoping you’d say that.’

Margaret put the kettle on to the hot plate of the Aga.

‘Do you like it here?’ she asked, fetching the teapot.

Barbara went over to her, wanting more than anything to put her arms around her.

‘I do. I really do. Just before you came in, I was thinking how comfortable I felt.’

Margaret patted her cheek.

‘I know you have no work and no place to live, so it’s perfect that you like it here. Maybe you could even begin to write that book.’

She opened a drawer and took out an old Bible, which she placed on the table.

‘This belonged to my sister Julia.’

The air in the room grew charged as Margaret stared at Barbara.

‘I want you to put your hand on it, because I’m going to tell you things that no one else has ever heard.’

Margaret caught Barbara’s hand and held it tightly.

‘What I’m going to tell you must never be repeated. If you swear to do this in good faith, then your promise is binding.’

‘I promise. I won’t ever write about you, I swear.’

‘No, it’s much more than that. What I’m going to tell you will frighten you. It’s about this house. You might think I’m crazy, but I know you feel it. When you know it all, you will have to swear never to tell another living soul.’

‘I’ll do it, I’ll swear.’

‘Not yet. Tonight. We’ll do it tonight.’

‘Let me do it now.’

Margaret released her hand and picked up the Bible.

‘But you haven’t been told the secret yet. You don’t know what you will be swearing to do. You’ll have to wait until tonight.’

Barbara felt impatient, but Margaret happily busied herself for the rest of the afternoon preparing a fish pie. She was transformed, singing, turning the radio on and finding a programme with old music-hall songs. She even danced around the kitchen at one point. She was obviously not concerned about Barbara’s background as a journalist.

Margaret then announced she would need to do some paperwork. Sitting at the kitchen table, she put on a pair of glasses and tackled a pile of documents. Every so often she would tear up something that appeared to annoy her. Then she would turn to a small notebook and write copious notes.