House of Doves

HOUSE OF DOVES

Annie loved the house; I once asked her why she stayed when my grandmother was so rude, calling her names and ordering her about the way she did. Annie just laughed "why should I let her or anyone else drive me away. I was born in that bedroom" we were outside at the time and she pointed to a window high above our heads. "And I shall die there—God willing."

All nonsense of course, she'd been born in the local village and moved in when someone was needed to cook and clean for my grandmother. She was right about the house thought, it provided for them in different ways, including being the inspiration for a great novel. Yes—my grandmother was Corrine Stewart author of House of Doves; you've probably read it, most people have.

Forgive me if I am not overly enthusiastic; she modelled the characters of the sinister housekeeper and evil gardener after her own son and daughter in law: my parents in fact. Utterly ruthless, she never forgave them for moving away, for seeking to make a life elsewhere, lives eventually lost when their boat capsized in a freak storm off the Maldives.

As my only living relative, grandmother agreed to take me, give me a home as long as I observed certain strictures.

"You may refer to me as grandmother—" she paused her voice shaking with some powerful emotion "and you will never mention—them."

She leaned forward placing her hands palm down on the highly polished surface of her monumental oak desk. "And if you wish to enjoy the benefits I can provide you will never speak to anyone about your life here. Do you understand?"

"Yes grandmother---"

There was a long silence and assuming she had finished with me I edged towards the door, eager to get away.

"Wait--"

She pushed herself back from the desk and I realised for the first time that she was confined to a wheelchair.

           "Go and tell that slut in the kitchen to bring me a pot of tea and two poached eggs"

 "Yes grandmother—"

"And I want toast, lightly browned not burned to a crisp like last time."

It seems odd now; I'd only just arrived, dropped off by a flustered lady from social services who'd shown me into a big bedroom, told me it was mine and instructed me to wait until I was called for. This hardly seemed the moment to remind my grandmother I had no idea where to find the kitchen. 

She backed her chair out from behind the desk and rolled towards me.

 "You may go—"

In the end it wasn't difficult; I just followed the distant strains of Frank Sinatra to a room at the back of the house, where warmth and light poured from a half open door. Someone inside was singing, picking up the refrain "sweet comic Valentine—" interspersed with an occasional burst of laughter. It drew me forward, peeping in I spied the owner of the voice, skirts flying, she twirled in a crazy mass of dizzying circles around the kitchen floor while her male companion, not quite as agile did his best to catch her.  

"No Gerry, leave me alone—"

But he persisted and she quickly gave in "Oh all right then—"

I must have made a noise because she thrust him away "wait—I'll close the door."

At that I fled; my shoes clattering against the ancient flagstones, back to my cold bedroom where I pulled the old fashioned eiderdown round my shoulders and waited, lonely and bewildered wondering what to do next.

In the end I dozed, occasionally waking to the thump of my grandmother's walking stick on that worn but beautiful Persian carpet I'd seen in her room. She wanted her eggs and toast, perhaps she'd dismiss me in the morning and although I already loathed this tomb of a house it was all I had. I shivered; a full moon rode high, shining in at my window. The curtains refused to draw, fixed in position by age and dust. I could easily believe it was haunted; I'd just come to this conclusion when with a creak straight out of a horror movie the door began to open. I clutched the bed post with hands that trembled and screwed my eyes tight shut.

"Oh dear—" a voice murmured "did I frighten you? I am sorry—"

The ghost turned out to be the woman from the kitchen carrying a tray which she set down on a desk in the corner, pulling out a chair.

"Come and sit down I've bought you something to eat."

I approached the table and took a look: toast topped with a fried egg and flanked on either side by baked beans and sausages. I tucked in, washing it down with mouthfuls of sweet milky coffee.

The woman sat watching me. "You were hungry" she said at last as she cleared the plates, stacking them on the tray. "I'm Annie by the way."

 I took the proffered hand; "I was very sorry to hear about your mum and dad--" she said. "I had reason to be grateful to your father he helped me out once when I really needed it."

Her statement left me tongue tied and unable to answer except to tell her my grandmother had forbidden me to mention them.

"Well—" she said "I'm sure we can find a way round that."

And she did, sitting with me and holding my hand somehow the burden I'd been carrying felt lighter. Annie was very kind but she liked her boys as she called them, a little too much.

She hefted the tray against her hip; "it's very cold in here, would you like a heater and perhaps a couple of hot water bottles."

Later after she'd helped me to undress and tucked me into a warm bed, I recalled the message.

"Oh grandmother wanted poached eggs, I'm sorry I did look for you, that is if you are—" I stopped speaking and she finished the sentence for me.

"Yes I am the slut in the kitchen---don't worry about your grandmother. But were you down stairs earlier?"

 I admitted I had been but I didn't see anything, I assured her. She was I decided probably just being kind to that man the way she'd been kind to me; not true, strictly speaking but hey, I was ten years old; what did I know?

She ruffled my hair and flicked the light switch tumbling us both into utter darkness and after bidding me a whispered goodnight, closed the door. I listened to the echo of her footsteps on uncarpeted wooden floorboards, until they faded into silence and I slept.

That stupid book; everyone I met wanted to know about Corrine Stewart and her one single masterpiece. House of Doves defies explanation, screamed the banner headline on the cover of the reprints that stocked the shelves in her room; often imitated never surpassed claimed another. For grandmother they must have been a constant reminder; not of her success but that despite early promise, she'd failed to produce anything as good. It had soured her; she had written a series of very popular gothic novels anyone might be proud of but comparisons were inevitable and not as good as her first was always the conclusion.

I could appreciate how cleverly she satisfied her target audience; girls my age loved her gothic romances, gobbling them up like starving men at a banquet. And she knew how to leave them hungry for more; I think it was the real reason she'd taken me in. Read that she'd snap at me, tossing a new manuscript on to the desk and I want an honest opinion; is it age appropriate. 

 I'd have moved out had I been able; but alas, the money was all hers and she kept it under tight control. She ensured I was properly educated of course; at a select girls' boarding school. For two thirds of the intervening years I was absent then aged eighteen I returned home for good, I could arrange a perfect table centre piece, embroider a tray cloth or conjure a flawless omelette fins herbs. Otherwise I had no saleable skills but I did have an imagination teeming with ideas and that was enough.

The house thrummed with tension; grandmother upstairs, spitting venom because copies of the latest Corrine Stewart weren't flying off the shelves fast enough. She shouted at me to come in "make yourself useful—" she said. "My agent says I need a secretary to arrange some publicity and you're all I've got." 

 I hated her; stuck up here, spreading her poison like an evil spider; I know now how disappointed she must have been. My grandmother had bet everything on a single throw of the dice and although she'd won, her victory had backfired in way she'd never foreseen.

Downstairs Annie continued entertaining and being kind to an endless stream of men named Gerry or Dave or Bobby, less special now she no longer played Frank Sinatra or danced for them.

My Grandmother had decided to put her past masterpiece to work, to emerge from seclusion and give an interview or two. Reviewers needed to receive a good impression so the house should have a few doves to justify its name.

           Annie was sceptical; "they won't stay doves are sensitive birds they don't like discord."

           When I carried this response to my grandmother, she gave one of her cackling laughs.

"Of course they'll stay, everything has its price; even doves. Do you think they care where the corn meal comes from?"

            Her eyes darted at my face like two blue fish; "you've had something on your mind ever since you came back from school, what is it you want to say. Come on out with it."

           I decided to confront her "Are you about to tell the world the truth--?"

           "What truth; what do you mean?"

           "Grandmother if you go public it must become obvious to the meanest intelligence that you didn't write House of Doves; the cat will be out of the bag and we shall never get it back in."

           She was staring fixedly at me; "You can't say that you have no proof."

           "I think I have the best kind of truth, Annie knows—"

           "That slut—she knows nothing and cares even less."

           That wasn't true; Annie had told herself the story about being born in the house for so long she'd come to believe it. If grandmother were revealed as an imposter then she could say goodbye to her cushy life; she'd be back in the two up two down, she'd really come from.

           "I think I'll come downstairs" grandmother said surprising me. "Come here and give me a hand."

           Annie was outside inspecting the dovecote. A fine example of medieval brick making, it was castellated like the tower of a castle. Around the top spaces were provided where the doves could nest. A narrow stair way led to a door, inside there was a walkway around the inner circumference, providing access to the birds and their eggs.

It was then I asked Annie why she stayed and put up with my grandmother. "I know where the bodies are buried--" she said.

           I pointed to the latest body, grandmother had unfortunately tripped on her way up the narrow stairs; she'd hit her head an almighty thump.

           "Do you think she's dead?" I asked Annie.

           "Better wait a while before we call an ambulance" she replied "just to be sure. We came out and found her like this don't forget. She was inspecting the dovecote and slipped. We told her to be careful but you know how stubborn she always was."

           "And the news—"

           "What news?"

"The revelation that it was my mother who wrote House of Doves; that grandmother found the manuscript, realised its value and passed it off as her own work after making a few judicious changes."

           "Oh you don't want to go telling people that now do you? The house and the money will be yours, after all" she indicated my grandmother lying so still there could only be one conclusion. "I did the dirty work once and I can easily do it again."

           We share a secret Annie and I one more useful to her than money in the bank. Grandmother lasted a few weeks but eventually we had to have the life support machine turned off. They suspect us but can prove nothing; where they ask did she find the strength to leave her wheelchair. But the autopsy showed she was never quite as infirm as she pretended.  Annie must have known they said, she'd cared for the old lady for years; oh yes we said, grandmother could walk when she wanted to.

I have taken over grandmother's rooms, since she died, the place suits me; I can be alone and write. I have Annie's measure now and she mine, so we watch each other very carefully, nursing our secret, Annie and I.

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