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| The Face in the Window | |
| By AnnieSeed | ||||||||||
| 11 May 2007 | ||||||||||
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I was cleaning the windows of our new build bungalow and pondering the mysteries of life when this idea came to me. I powered up the other half's laptop and bashed this out all in one go. I haven't done much revision to it so I'd appreciate your views. The Face in the Window Elizabeth Phillips Mrs Babden had always been houseproud. As a bride she had come to this house and through fifty years of marriage she had always kept it spotless. Old age had not wearied her – or if it had, pride had kept her back straight and her elbow strong. She kept herself to herself, giving no quarter to the new relaxed ways of the generations that followed her. She had no time for the free and easy manners of today, insisting on calling her neighbours and acquaintances by their titles and surnames. The neighbour to the right of her was Mrs Wood, to the left was the widowed Mr Dock, a retired civil servant. It mattered not that Mrs Wood was June to Mr Dock, and that Mr Dock was Eric to Mrs Wood. Mrs Babden preferred the old ways. Privately she despised Mrs Wood’s forgetfulness and slack approach to housekeeping, but she was unfailingly courteous to her and to everyone else, although to those of whom she disapproved, such as “Ms” Welch and her four illegitimate children (each the product of a different relationship, as Mrs Babden had heard) her politeness was invariably distant and rather chilly. Mrs Babden had always kept to a strict schedule with regard to her housekeeping, as to everything else in her structured life. Thus it was that every Monday afternoon on the dot of two o’ clock, Mrs Babden would appear outside her spotless abode, armed with a bucket and cloths, and would clean and polish every inch of the windows, frames and doors. Only fear of looking ridiculous made her refrain from keeping to her schedule when it rained, but she would hover impatiently at the window, watching the grey skies and willing the rain to clear up. Once it did, she was outside, rubbing and polishing furiously, in a frantic attempt to “catch up”. Her neighbours neither liked nor disliked her, preferring where she was concerned to keep themselves to themselves, just as she did. Mrs Babden would not have been concerned about this, had she noticed it. She was content in her little world, barely noticing what went on beyond the boundaries of her garden. It was rare that gossip or news was repeated to her; the snippet about Ms Welch and her brats was years old. Mrs Babden neither knew nor cared about the affairs of her fellow men. So engrossed was she in polishing her windows to perfection that she barely noticed a funeral cortege pass by one Monday afternoon in late July. Nor did she notice the perfection of the day, the hot blue sky innocent of the slightest wisp of fluffy cloud. The sun shone with intense brilliance, making it harder than usual for her to see any smears on the panes unless she stepped back. At last she was satisfied and with a final glance at the façade of her house to check that no speck of dirt remained, she trudged into her immaculate kitchen to rinse out her cloths and bucket, putting the bucket, after she had carefully dried it, back into the cupboard ready for next Monday. By teatime the freshly washed cloths hung on the line quite still, for no breeze ruffled the hazy heat of the evening. The heat was still such that they were dry in no time and Mrs Babden had folded them neatly away, and was soon busy on the next task in her schedule. Mrs Babden was a thin woman, as could be expected of one who was almost constantly active and ate little. Even so, she disliked the heat and was glad when the hot blues and greens of summer faded into the mellow gold of autumn, and the air was crisp, sharply cold and fragrant with the smoke of wood fires. It was a dry autumn, with hardly even a shower to interrupt her schedule. The first Monday in October saw her outside beginning her energetic cleaning, rubbing and polishing just as the church clock struck two. Noticing an obstinate smear, Mrs Babden leaned close to the window, breathed on it with eyes shut, then opened them, cloth poised in the air - to find herself staring at the smooth, unlined face of a young woman in her mid twenties. She stood frozen in shock, stifling a scream. The face stared back at her, clearly astonished. It had light blue eyes, well-shaped features and light brown hair that waved softly round its sculptured prettiness. Mrs Babden threw her cloth into the bucket and charged furiously into the house, calling out angrily “What are you doing in my house?” Only her own voice echoed back at her, and when it had died away, silence returned. The woman didn’t answer. In fact she seemed to have disappeared. Undeterred, Mrs Babden searched the house from bottom to top. There was no sign of the intruder, nor could she have escaped without having to pass the irate Mrs Babden, for the windows were securely locked and the keys hidden inside the Chinese brass vase in the pantry. There was no sign of anyone having broken in, nor had anything been taken. Mrs Babden could not account for it. She was a rational woman and did not believe in ghosts or visions. Perhaps it had all been a figment of her imagination. Perhaps she ought to consider her diet – and get more sleep. For a few days Mrs Babden tried to eat less cheese and more fibre, forcing down the hated bran. She lay in bed fidgeting impatiently hours later than her preferred rising time, her tortured mind fretting over the day’s work not yet begun. At last though she returned thankfully to her beloved schedule, ticking off tasks completed with a sense of greater satisfaction than ever. Two weeks later she saw the face again, once more staring at her in apparent puzzlement through the sparkling clean window. Again Mrs Babden searched the house, wondering where the intruder could be concealing herself. There was no sign of anyone ever having been there. Then one morning as she dressed, Mrs Babden heard a sound from the attic above. It sounded like someone stealthily moving about up there. Rushing down to the kitchen, Mrs Babden seized her broom, raced back upstairs and banged angrily on the ceiling, shouting “Come down from there! I’m calling the police!” There was no answer; no shifting of the loft hatch or guilty intruder climbing down to give herself up. Only silence met the old lady’s angry shouts. Still shaking, she went into her bedroom and lifted the receiver. The line was dead! What was going on? How was she to summon help with no telephone? Well if the silly girl wanted to stay up there, let her stay there. Fetching a hammer and nails and two short planks of wood from the shed, Mrs Babden nailed up the loft hatch. Even if she had food up there, the girl would soon have to give herself up. Mrs Babden was not the woman to admit defeat. So it was that she was all the more shocked to see the face yet again the next time she set about cleaning her windows. It stared at her just as before, in puzzlement, and even, Mrs Babden thought, in pity. Just to one side of it was a second face! It was a rounder face framed by straight, bleached blonde hair, with small green eyes, rosy cheeks and a small, pursed red mouth. It was staring not at Mrs Babden, but at the first face, apparently with considerable sympathy. Almost hysterical, Mrs Babden hurled her wet cloth at the window, satisfied to see the first face recoil, shocked. Back into the house she dashed, but was not surprised to find once again, no sign of either of the two women. There was little doubt that Mrs Babden was going to have to revise her views on the supernatural. She had two ghosts in her house, and though they seemed to give her little trouble, she was not happy about it. But what was she to do? Confiding in any of the neighbours was not to be thought of – she was aware that she was hardly held in warm affection. Some of them thought her positively stuck up, she was sure. They would relish the thought that she was going batty in her old age. Quite forgetting her bucket and cloths, Mrs Babden wandered disconsolately round her neat little house, staring at the familiar things. Until she heard their voices. Talking about her. She crept back down the hall, and peered through the crack in the open sitting room door. There they were! Still standing at the window, staring at the soapsuds trickling down the pane where she had flung her cloth in despair. “You believe me now?” said the first woman. “I always believed you,” the blonde protested, “It’s just this is the first time I’ve seen anything like this.” “The neighbours say she was always house proud. Maybe she doesn’t approve of me.” “It’s her problem if she doesn’t! It’s not her house anymore!” retorted the blonde. Mrs Babden bristled indignantly. Not her house? What was the trollop talking about? Oh if only the phone was working! This was an ideal chance to get the police round and actually catch them both! They must have thought she’d gone out – though Mrs Babden couldn’t for the life of her see why. “I feel sorry for her though,” said the first woman, sympathetically. “Well by all accounts she was never very friendly. Not the sort to have felt sorry for you or anyone else for that matter! You’ll have to get one of those people in to explain to her and get her to move on.” The first woman looked at the blonde, doubtful. “Do you think I should? I do feel so sorry for her though. I mean, how do you explain to a woman that the house she’s lived in and loved for – oh, the neighbours said it was over fifty years! – that it’s not her house anymore. Oh, I don’t know if I could do it.” “How do you tell her it’s not her house anymore?” echoed the blonde disbelievingly, “More to the point, how do you explain to her that she’s been dead for the last three months?!”
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