Chapter 3: Three - A London Haunting: A Christmas Ghost Story

“Miss Beck. Miss Beck! Wake up. Come on now, girl. Wake up, will you?”

“I…I…” Crikey, had she just fainted or something? Was that Mr Lord’s voice cajoling her, him trying to look after her when it should be the other way around?

If she had fainted, at least she hadn’t ended up on the floor amid all the rubbish. She’d fallen back into the wooden chair instead. Yes – there he was, looming over her, peering down as she forced her eyes open, clearly having had quite the fright. He looked ashen – probably as much as she did.

“Oh, Mr Lord, I’m sorry. Very sorry,” she said, sitting up straighter, her mind scrambling to piece together what had just happened. Nothing. Nothing had happened. She’d been taken aback by the state of the room, that was all. Oh, and she’d been hit on the head with a stone earlier, hard enough to draw blood.

Also…something else. She’d been gazing at something in particular – the photo frame, that was it – empty. She was certain it had been empty, though for a moment the blackness inside it had seemed alive, reaching out to her. And then…it had all become too much. The day so far, the stifling heat, both outside and in – and then, boom! – her mind had shut down. Odd. So odd. But, Mr Lord…what must he think?

Brushing herself down, she made to stand, but Mr Lord stayed her.

“You’ve been hurt,” he said. “There’s blood on your forehead.”

“Oh, yes.” Her hand flew to the tender skin there. “It was those boys.”

His brow furrowed. “Boys? What boys?”

“Oh, there were two of them…” At your window, she almost added, but stopped herself in time. He didn’t seem to know about any boys, so perhaps that was the first – and hopefully the last – time they’d be there. No need to worry him about it. “It was on the way here,” she said instead. “I had a bit of an altercation.”

Mr Lord was appalled. “They…struck you?”

“No, no, no,” she said quickly, eager to reassure him. “They just…well, I got in their way, that’s all, and they threw a stone at me.”

“Tykes!” Mr Lord spat the word, the venom behind it surprising Lottie.

That word she’d used earlier regarding Mr Lord – what was it? An enigma. Yes, that was it. There truly was more to him than met the eye – not least his agility.

When they’d met at the top of the stairs, she’d noticed how straight-backed he was, almost too much, too stiff, as though an invisible hand held a string tied to the crown of his head and was pulling it taut. He’d then led her to his ‘den’ as she was now beginning to think of it, both a living room and a bedroom, and though only a short distance, he’d walked as well as she could. No limp, no need to clutch the bannister, then proceeding to lower himself into his chair with relative ease.

And before she’d fainted – just a moment before – she was sure she’d seen him practically leap out of his chair towards her. Eighty-four he might be, but a good eighty-four: fit enough to care for himself, to manage the basics at least. There were others in far worse condition who wouldn’t dream of requesting what he had – full-time daily care. She glanced around again at the mess he lived in, chose to live in, because elsewhere, from what she’d seen of it, the house was clean enough.

She’d fretted about this job earlier, had even planned to tell him she was turning it down. If the agency kicked off, fine – she’d register with another. But…it might not be as bad as she’d thought. It might even be – dare she think it, because she was no shirker – easy.

Still wishing she could jump into a cold shower, she nonetheless stayed seated and smiled at him. She’d introduce herself a little – nothing too much, just some small details he could take in: her age, how long she’d been working in the care sector, that she was born and bred in London, like him, probably. Little titbits to ease them out of strict professional mode and into a more personal sphere.

Then she’d ask about him, start building their relationship, essential since they’d be spending so much time together. About to open her mouth, he spoke first.

“I’m sure the agency told you, but your hours are ten until five. I abhor lateness, and this morning I noticed you were late – by ten minutes. Don’t allow that to happen again, Miss Beck. And we’ll stick to using our surnames, if you don’t mind; I prefer it. Let me be clear: I don’t require personal care, though I do require…some tidying.”

At least here he had the good grace to give a small, embarrassed cough.

“Sometimes my newspaper isn’t delivered, or the magazines I’ve ordered. Things can go…awry. If so, you will fetch them from the shops instead. There’s no need to use the kitchen; I order all the food I need. The delivery is reliable enough with that, at least. Besides, I have very little appetite these days. If you require food and drinks of your own, bring them with you. When you report here, come upstairs – straight upstairs, mind. In between those other tasks, you can just…sit. Where you are now.”

It was as Lottie had thought, not just an easy job, but a dream one. Exactly what she’d wanted, to be more of a companion than a whirlwind rushing through. And yet…it came with a catch, as so many things in life do.

Yes, she would happily sit with him – but talk? Chat? Was that what he wanted? Because the way he’d delivered his instructions had been so cold, so perfunctory, it resisted friendship of any kind. Even now, having finished speaking, he sat in his chair, back still straight, hands folded neatly in his lap, staring not at her but beyond – almost refusing to meet her eyes.

She swallowed. How on earth was she going to cope with this? Sitting here, day after day, in the stifling heat – if it continued – with someone akin to…a statue. For that was the impression he gave: that he was made of stone. The days and the weeks would drag. Every second, minute, and hour.

Housebound? Truly? When he could move as he did? Maybe what he’d told the agency about his illnesses was a cover for something else: loneliness.

She was in an ordinary terraced house, with someone who should have been ordinary too, doing an ordinary job. Yet the feeling grew inside her that the situation she’d found herself in was extraordinary. She’d been so sure they would get along – she usually did with older people. There was a kind of affinity there, she supposed, born of respect. But could she forge the same connection with Mr Lord?

Also, what was it over her shoulder that he found so fascinating? A speck of dust on the curtains, perhaps? If so, it was in the company of many, many others.

Lottie sat with her back straight. If she hadn’t worn the short-sleeved version of her work tunic today, she’d have rolled up her sleeves, just as she’d imagined doing an hour or so earlier – a gesture to show that while he might pay her wages via the agency, she meant business as well. This was a partnership, after all, and it was the twenty-first century. All this ‘you will do this’ and ‘you will do that’ didn’t sit well with her. She was a carer, not a servant.

“I will do as you ask, Mr Lord, of course,” she replied, deliberately emulating him. “And we will see how the arrangement pans out. Whether it suits us both.”

If he was startled by her tone – and she thought she sounded very professional indeed, utterly no-nonsense – it was only momentarily, his eyes betraying him by widening slightly, but at least she had his attention again.

“And as I’m late, as you’ve pointed out, and I’ve got a bit of time to make up, I’d best get started straightaway.” She rose to her feet, relieved to find she was steadier now. “We cannot sit in this heat, so for starters, I need to open a window––”

“I don’t like the windows open!”

She frowned. Was that…alarm in his voice?

“But why, Mr Lord?”

“I… You can’t open them. They’re nailed down.”

Lottie was astonished. Nailed down? Who would do such a thing? The whole point of windows was to open them – to let in fresh air, to stop it from stagnating inside the house, from turning fetid, as it already had in this room.

“Mr Lord, we need some air in here. This…this isn’t healthy. Let me go over and have a look. Maybe I could bring a pair of pliers tomorrow, remove some of––”

“NO!”

Mr Lord was on his feet again, bellowing at her, his command exploding between them – the only thing to stir the air in there, to rouse it.

“The frames rattle,” he continued. “Incessantly. They remain nailed down.”

This time their eyes locked; Lottie didn’t think she could look away even if she tried. With no avoidance now, he held her gaze, meeting her defiance with his own – the weight of his age bearing down on her, the strength of his will still evident, still sharp. A man who couldn’t be housebound, not technically, but perhaps something else – agoraphobic. Wasn’t that what it was called? A fear of the outside world?

As they stared at each other, another thought surfaced. Was this man afraid of…everything? Was that why he’d imprisoned himself – or as good as?

What was his story, she wondered? Because he had one. Everyone who’d lived as long as he had did. Tales to tell or to be sealed tight in some inner vault. If it was the latter, coaxing them out of him would be difficult, though…she had her ways.

Ways she’d used before at Silver Birches – not just with mute Alice, but with others too. If she touched them, held their hands while they were awake or even asleep, images would sometimes form: fragments of moments that had mattered to them. They came to her like stories, unwinding in her mind, sometimes clear, sometimes hazy, as though glimpsed through a curtain of gauze. It was an ability she had – a gift, Tony called it. Bobby had called it that too. Even her mum lately, though she’d been appalled at first, wondering who Lottie had inherited it from.

Jenny was coming round to it now, though, on the proviso that Lottie was careful – which she was. Besides, it didn’t happen all the time, and she could refrain easily enough, keen to respect other people’s privacy as much as her own. If she ever chose to bring it on deliberately, it would only ever be for the purpose of good. She’d promised that – to her mum, to Tony, and to herself. Never to pry. Only to help.

Could she help the man in front of her – Reggie Lord?

Or should she do as she’d wanted to earlier and get the heck out of there?

The weight of that decision bore down on her too, bringing with it yet another wave of unease. This was not going to be an easy job – a dream. Something was wrong here; nothing was as she’d expected. The house was out of time, just as Mr Lord was – both of them trapped in some realm apart.

What should she do? What?

More of Bobby’s words returned to her, spoken late one night at Silver Birches, when they’d been sitting together – everyone else asleep – just the two of them in the dayroom, munching on slices of pizza. Lottie had been wearing long sleeves. Back then, she’d never worn short sleeves, no matter how warm the weather.

As they’d talked – candidly, as the small hours often encouraged – and as they’d kept on eating, Lottie’s sleeves had ridden up, revealing the lines across her wrists. Some were silvery with age, others fresher. That was when it had all come out: about Matt, who’d died of leukaemia, and the guilt she carried for still being here when he wasn’t. Cutting herself, she’d told Bobby, had offered a form of release, a distraction from the grief. And though Bobby had understood, she’d been angry too.

“Don’t beat yourself up about Matt,” she’d said. “And don’t do that to yourself anymore, either.”

She’d urged Lottie to find other ways to express the pain she felt, ways that healed rather than harmed. To accept the loss, even. There was, she’d said, surprising comfort in something as simple as acceptance.

These days, Lottie wore short-sleeved tops freely. There was simply no need to hide what she’d done. Even her mum knew, and had understood too, had wrapped her in one of her famous hugs and bought vitamin E oil to rub into the scars.

Just as she’d learned to own her gift, she had to own the love and loss life had handed her – the curveballs not just thrown, but hurled.

Ah, dear Bobby. Fierce Bobby. Brave Bobby, with her strong and noble heart. She was almost certainly surfing comets now. Such a character, a treasure – recalcitrant, some would have said – and Bobby would have grinned at that. Just like Matt, she’d always be a part of Lottie, the joy of her. In some ways, Lottie supposed, she was always on the lookout for another friend like her, but so far, no luck.

Certainly not Mr Lord.

She had to stifle her disappointment about that, fall back on acceptance – accepting someone like him. Her client. A word she hated when it referred to people, finding it too clinical for a role that demanded at least a degree of warmth. But perhaps, just perhaps, a little detachment wasn’t such a bad thing. Not in this case.

Ah, but the man could glare – every bit as hard as she could. One of them had to back down, though. There’d been enough conflicts today.

Lottie took a deep breath, and with it, settled her decision more firmly.

“Okay, Mr Lord, if we can’t open the windows, that’s fine. I won’t bring any pliers tomorrow. But how about a fan? You can’t object to that, surely? Then we can sit – just sit, as you want – but at least we’ll be more comfortable. Okay?”

She received a terse nod for her efforts.