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| The Old Workhouse | |
| By ladym | ||||
| 19 December 2006 | ||||
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Hello, This is a short story that I hope to submit to magazines soon. I would really appreciate some feedback. Thanks The Old Workhouse The Jaguar came to a stop on the gravel drive with a contented rumble. ‘Well,’ Graham said. ‘What do you think?’ Christine peered through the windscreen and looked up at the large, grey stone building before them. ‘You’re kidding? It’s a mansion!’ ‘It is big,’ he agreed with a chuckle as they climbed out of the car. ‘Wait until you see the inside.’ ‘I like the look of it. How old is it?’ Graham studied the estate agent’s blurb sheet. ‘Early Victorian. It’s got plenty of character.’ ‘On the outside, at least. Has it been modernised?’ ‘Central heating and stuff. But it’s a listed building, so the basic structure can’t be altered.’ ‘Listed buildings can be trouble.’ Graham unlocked and pushed the front door open. ‘Can we just have a look before putting the mockers on it?’ ‘Of course. I can see you’re smitten.’ Graham smiled. ‘I do like it.’ ‘From the outside, at least.’ ‘Step over the threshold, madam,’ he gestured grandly. Christine made a mock curtsey and stepped inside. She pulled her cardigan tighter. ‘I thought you said there was heating.’ ‘You’re cold?’ He placed his hand against a radiator just inside the door. ‘It’s on full.’ ‘But it’s freezing.’ ‘I feel fine. Get inside and I’ll close the door.’ ‘Big hall,’ Christine said. ‘Nice flagstones.’ ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Feels like home already.’ Christine frowned. ‘Steady, boy. It’s nice, but it’s not that nice.’ ‘You don’t like it? How can you not like this?’ ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s okay. It’s cold.’ ‘It’s not cold,’ he insisted. ‘Come on. Let’s look around.’ He led her through the rooms. There were many of them, all good sizes. Christine listened as Graham waxed eloquent about the house. She didn’t mind his enthusiasm, she just didn’t share it. She was cold, whether he said so or not, and there was definitely something. ‘Oh, look at this.’ He pulled her by the elbow to a short narrow corridor in the hall that led to the kitchen. ‘A picture’s been painted straight onto the wall.’ ‘I’m surprised you can tell it's a picture. It’s so dirty.’ ‘I think it's of this house. I can just make out a structure. I think that’s a gateway.’ ‘What’s that in the corner?’ Christine pointed at the bottom of the painting. ‘A signature and title. Milo Taverner. His Workhouse.’ ‘This used to be a Workhouse? An Oliver Twist thing?’ ‘Seems so. It would have been a larger complex then. Around here,’ he gestured at the edges of the picture, ‘must be outbuildings. They must have fallen down, ‘cause they’re not on the plans. At least we won’t be buying load of sheds.’ ‘Wait a minute,’ Christine said. ‘We’ve gone from 'looking around' to 'buying' without any discussion.’ Graham frowned at her. ‘I like it,’ he said, looking like a sulky schoolboy. ‘Don’t you?’ Christine hesitated. Since their marriage, Graham had put her wants before his in practically every decision that had been made. It was time she reciprocated. After all, she didn’t exactly loathe the house. ‘I do,’ she lied. ‘But can we afford it?’ ‘You know we can,’ he said excitedly, grabbing her hands. ‘I know it’s a bit further out than we planned on, but there’s shops not three miles away, and this would mean that we don’t have to hire offices and a studio, because we’ve got plenty of room here. It’s perfect.’ ‘The fact that it used to be a workhouse doesn’t bother you?’ Christine asked hopefully. ‘Bother me?’ he laughed. ‘Why should it?’ ‘Well, horrible things used to go on in places like these?’ ‘And you know that for a fact or you just read it in Dickens?’ ‘Don’t use that tone with me.’ ‘What tone?’ he cried, following her as she stormed out to the car. ‘Talking to me like I’m an idiot,’ she said, slamming the door shut. Graham looked after her in exasperation. He closed the front door and took his time locking it, waiting for his temper to subside. Christine watched him from the car. He had never spoken to her like that before. She looked away, pretending to brush something from her jeans, as he joined her in the car. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a sigh. She nodded. ‘We okay?’ ‘Fine.’ ‘Sweetie, I li-‘ ‘Don’t call me Sweetie.’ ‘Chriiis.’ ‘And don’t whine.’ ‘I said sorry.’ ‘I know you did. And I’m sorry. You like the house? You want to buy it?’ He stroked her cheek with his finger. ‘I want it. I do. But if you don’t –‘ ‘You want it,’ she shook her head, interrupting him, ‘then we buy it.’ ‘But you don’t-‘ ‘Forget me. If the house will make you happy, it will make me happy.’ He grinned hugely. ‘You’re sure?’ ‘I’m sure,’ she said laughingly. ‘Let’s go and see the agent.’ It all happened very fast. Within five weeks, they had moved out of their rented flat and work offices, sold off a lot of their too modern furniture on eBay, informed utility companies, relations and friends of their change of address and moved into the old workhouse. ‘I hate living out of boxes,’ Graham complained as he tried to find a clean shirt from a clothes box that had ended up inexplicably in the kitchen. ‘I can't wait until we find some proper furniture –‘ ‘By proper I assume you mean antique?’ Christine said with a tight smile. ‘That’s what I mean.’ ‘I liked our old furniture.’ ‘It wasn’t right for here.’ ‘Might have made it less gloomy.’ ‘Gloomy?’ he said, straightening up and looking at her with a frown. ‘There’s nothing gloomy about this place.’ ‘I know,’ she said, trying to laugh. ‘God, Graham, take that look off your face, it was just a joke.’ ‘Don’t make jokes like that,’ he said sternly. ‘You told me you liked this place, as much as I do. Were you lying?’ ‘What is this, an Inquisition? And what is it with you? The minute you walk in this house, you behave like a different person.’ ‘I’m me.’ ‘Well, I don’t like you when you’re in this house.’ Graham threw the shirt he had found across the room. ‘Well, you had better learn to like me, ‘cause we’re in this house for good. I like it here, and I’m not leaving.’ ‘I’m not saying I want to leave,’ Christine shouted. ‘But could you be a little less Draconian.’ ‘What the hell does that mean?’ ‘It means you’ve been acting like a monster ever since we moved in.’ ‘That's ridiculous,' he scoffed. 'I've got a lot on my plate at the moment, and I can't devote my time to satisfying your every whim. If that makes me a monster ... well, I don't know what you want of me.' 'I don't want my every whim catered to,' Christine said sulkily. 'But you could come to bed more often. Before I'm asleep, I mean. You're always working on some part of this damn house.' ‘Unbelievable,' Graham shook his head. ’Well, my love, if you don't want our company to go bankrupt, I have to work. There is the little thing about making money. There's making this wonderful place into our home.' ’I just don’t feel it the way you do.’ ‘This place feels like home. Knowing my history in that regard, I had expected you to be pleased.’ ‘I want you to be happy.’ ‘I am happy. I’ll be even happier if you made an effort.’ ‘Alright, I’ll make an effort,’ she promised. ‘Good. Now can we eat?’ he jerked his chin at the pan bubbling on the hob. ‘It smells good.’ ‘Steak and kidney pudding. Old-fashioned food for an old-fashioned guy.’ ‘I am old-fashioned,’ he said as if he had just realised it. ‘I should have been born a hundred years ago. Or more.’ He sat down at the kitchen table, ready for his dinner. Christine smothered a sigh and pulled open a drawer, taking out two sets of cutlery. She handed them to him. ‘I found that in the loft,’ she pointed to a browning leaflet on the windowsill. ‘What is it?’ Graham asked. ‘A booklet produced by the local library, years back. About this house.’ ‘Really?’ he said as he snatched it from the windowsill. ‘Yeah, and that man who painted the picture in the hall? Milo Taverner? He was the original warden.’ ‘Fascinating,’ Graham murmured. ‘I suppose,’ Christine said quietly. She dished up and carried the plates over to the table. Graham picked up his knife and fork and cut into the pie almost mechanically, his eyes fixed on the page he was reading. ‘Not while we’re eating,’ she said. He didn’t seem to hear her. She shrugged, giving up. 'Anyway, I was right. About workhouse's reputations. This one had a particular murky history. Milo Taverner, the warden who painted that picture in the hall, was examined by the local authorities after complaints of abuse. The booklet doesn't go into any details, but I gather he was quite the sadist.' 'It doesn't say that anywhere,' he said scornfully, flicking through the booklet. 'Honestly, the conclusions you come to. He probably had to be strict, the scum he was dealing with. Whores and guttersnipes. The dregs of society that no one else would touch with a barge pole. He ought to have been given a medal for putting a roof over their heads.' ‘The people in workhouses were unfortunate. Do you have any idea what life was like in the nineteenth century if you were poor?' ‘I'm not listening to another of your social conscience lectures.' ‘It's history. And it seems to agree with me. Milo Taverner was found dead and a while after that, the workhouse was closed down.’ ‘Why?' Graham demanded, scanning through the pages. ‘Any warden that came in didn't last, until they couldn't get anyone to take over at all. He's probably haunting the place. That's why there's this atmosphere.’ ‘Atmosphere! You're back on that nonsense, are you, you silly cow?' Christine glared at him, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. Before they fell and shamed her, she snatched up her place and cutlery. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Don’t follow me. I’m going to watch the telly in the front room.’ ‘It’s a drawing-room,’ he yelled after her, grinding his teeth as he heard a door slam. Saturday. Breakfast. ‘What’s to be done today?’ Christine asked sourly. Graham patted his lips dry with a napkin. ‘The hall. It should be made to look presentable. So there’s stripping or sanding. Which would you prefer?’ Christine rubbed her tired eyes. ‘Stripping. Please. Don’t make a joke.’ ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he muttered, getting to his feet and tightening his belt. ‘Clear this up then.’ ‘Yes, my lord,’ she snarked as he walked out the door. She carried the cereal bowls to the dishwasher, opened the door and bent down to place them in the racks. A blackness filled her vision and she felt her knees go weak. She straightened, swallowing down the nausea rising in her throat. She took a deep breath and dared to open her eyes. They focussed and her head cleared. ‘What was that?’ she asked herself. The small of her back ached, and she pressed her fingers against it, wincing as her T-shirt rubbed against tender skin. In confusion, her fingers probed beneath the material, and felt welts, fresh and raw. In horror, she angled the stainless steel toaster towards her, and turning her back, lifted the T-shirt. In the distorted reflection, she could see her injury. What was worse than the pain, was knowing that she had no idea how she had got them. She opened her mouth, about to shout for Graham, then thought again. What if he had done it to her, somehow, perhaps in the night. The truth was she didn’t know her husband anymore. He acted different, strange, frightening. Ever since they had moved in. No, no, before that. It was since they had first viewed the house. They had returned to their rented flat after they had made an offer with the estate agent, and she remembered how excited he had been, striding up and down their small living-room, his hands on his hips, talking of his plans for the place. She had put that down to enthusiasm and had merely smiled at his talk. But now…. She lifted her T-shirt again, fascinated by those reddened welts. She squinted. They were gone. Her back was normal again; porcelain white skin, unblemished. ‘I must be going mad.’ ‘What are you doing?’ She whirled around. ‘There were…. Nothing,’ she said, lowering her shirt. ‘Are you coming to do some work, then?’ he demanded curtly. His brusqueness went over her head. ‘Sure,’ she nodded. ‘I’m coming.’ They hadn’t said a word to each other for over an hour. The silence got to Christine after fifteen minutes, so she had plugged herself into her mp3 player and selected Dean Martin. The smooth voice crooner was just beginning a new song when she came to the small corridor; the one with the painting. She shook her head, hoping to shake off her unease, turned her back to it and lifted the heavy steamer against the opposite wall and let the steam do its work. The wallpaper practically fell off the wall and piled around her feet. Dean was persuasive and she tried to lose herself in the music, but her neck would not stop prickling. She turned to look at the picture, as if by staring at it, she dared it to do its worse. Silly, she told herself and resumed her work. But the feeling was still there. A finger tapped her shoulder. She gave a start and whipped her head round, the earphones falling out with the motion. Graham was standing right behind her, examining the wall. ‘You’ve done well,’ he said, nodding in appreciation. ‘Thank you,’ she replied stiffly, pushing the earphones back in her ears. He tapped her shoulder again and gestured for her to remove them. ‘Why don’t you go out?’ ‘What?’ ‘Go shopping, spend some of our hard earned money.’ ‘There’s work to be done,’ she pointed at the walls. ‘You can have a break,’ he shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can’t finish off. And it’s time you got out of the house.’ ‘You’re sure? It would be lovely, if you don’t mind.’ ‘Go on,’ he said, taking the steamer from her hand. ‘Get out of here.’ She smiled gratefully and scooted by him. She rushed up the stairs, threw off her overalls and climbed into jeans and a T-shirt. She shouted a goodbye to him as she darted out the front door. Graham heard the car start up and the crunch of the gravel as she drove away. He placed the steamer on the floor, and turned to look at the painting. He smiled. It was night when Christine returned. She had enjoyed herself in the shops, evidence of which was stuffed in the boot without an inch to spare. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. With amazement, she looked around. The hall was exactly the same as when she left it. Wood dust coated the flagstones, and the curls of wallpaper still littered the ground. The hall was dark, save for the dim bulb glowing in the small corridor. ‘Graham?’ she called and waited for his reply. None came. Unhooking her bag from her shoulder and letting it fall to the floor, she moved towards the kitchen. She tried not to look at the painting as she passed, but an image of it penetrated the corner of her eye and it pulled her head around. She gasped. The painting had been cleaned. Gone was the dirt of decades, and the figures could be seen in all their glory. Glory? Was that the right phrase? This was no glory scene, no pastoral idyll. It was a scene of horror. The figures were remarkable in their detail, their clothes showed every crease, every line, almost every weave. But it was their faces that made Christine cover her mouth with revulsion. They were grotesque, exaggerated images of ugliness and deformity. And these were no people going about ordinary daily jobs; punishment was being meted out in this place; stocks were fully employed, chains hung around ankles and wrists, whips were being used to scourge the indolent. And there, in the middle. She knew who that was. Him, Milo Taverner, warden of the workhouse. There he stood, proud, in his own vision of hell. Why had Graham done this? she asked herself in incomprehension. Well, listed building be damned, she would not have this travesty decorating her house. She reached for the steamer at her feet and flicked the switch. With a savage thrust, she pushed the hissing machine against the portrait of Milo Taverner. A scream shattered the quiet of the hall. The steamer tumbled from her hand as she looked about her in terror for the source. A dark shape thundered down the stairs and headed straight for her. Strong, cold hands gripped her throat. Her hands slapped at her attacker. ‘Graham,’ she rasped as she smelt his aftershave with horrifying realisation. Then she could say no more, for the fingers tightened and her eyes began to close. Her legs gave way beneath her and she sank to the floor. He bent with her, his face coming out of shadow, and she saw his features contorted with rage. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be, her brain screamed at her again. It wasn’t possible. This was Graham, this man killing her was her husband. But even as the life left her body, she knew he had the face of Milo Taverner.
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