Variations on a Haunting Theme

coincidental.

1: Aria

I suppose I should have been flattered. Though Howard and I had been members of the same club for several years I knew little about him apart from the fact that he was a retired architect, unmarried and uncommunicative. He’d never spoken to me or any of my companions until that dark winter’s night when just as I was leaving he stopped me at the door and asked if I’d come to dinner with him on December the twenty ninth. Taken aback but being too slow to come up with any excuses I agreed. And so it was on the following week I found myself climbing the flight of stone steps to the Gothic-arched doorway of Slade House, a large, rambling dwelling built from granite as grey as the cloud that covered the late afternoon sky.

Standing under the porch I heard piano music coming from somewhere inside. I remember how calming it sounded and but for the bitter cold I’d have listened for longer. As it was I tugged at the bell pull and waited. Almost at once the music stopped and the figure of Howard appeared in the doorway. At first he stared at me as though he had no idea who I was or why I was there but then with a look of half-recognition he gestured for me to enter.

‘Howard,’ I smiled, ‘good to see you. You’d not forgotten, had you?’

‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Come in! Come in! You look chilled to the bone. Here, let me take your coat. I’ll bank up the fire.’

Reluctantly I removed my coat and without being asked settled myself in a leather arm chair in front of the inglenook fireplace. While Howard rummaged for logs in the hearth I glanced around the room. Apart from the glow of the fire the only other source of light came from a candle on top of the grand piano. The room was sparsely furnished with two leather chairs, a long wooden chest, a bookcase, a dining table and a grand piano which filled most of the space. The grey walls were discoloured by smoke from the fire.

I looked at Howard who stood gazing into space as if in a trance. Tall and slightly bent I imagined him to be in his late sixties. His face was gaunt and with bony cheeks, a prominent forehead and deep-set eyes there was something distinctly reptilian about him. His shabby, tweed trousers and oversized sweater hung from rather than clung to his frame. Nothing about him appealed to me and yet here I was wondering now more than ever what madness had brought me here.

Suddenly stirring from his reverie as though he’d just remembered I was still in the room he turned towards me. ‘William,’ he said, ‘it is William isn’t it? What can I get you?’

‘Whatever you’re having,’ I answered, ‘and please call me Bill. Everyone does.’

‘Yes, I’d noticed. One of my old work colleagues was nicknamed Bill though I much preferred to call him William. Do you mind if I call you William?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Excellent, William it is. Would whisky suit?’

‘Sounds good to me.’ I was eager for anything alcoholic to relieve the formality. I dreaded an evening of small talk but as things turned out I needn’t have worried. Later that night I would learn more than any sane man would care to know.

While Howard was fetching the whisky a number of questions sprang to mind. Why had I been invited here and none of the other club members? Knowing so little about him why had I agreed to come? Who was Howard and what was his background? Did he know more about me than I knew of him? My train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of spitting and hissing. The logs had caught light and the fire was ablaze. I should like to have said I was cheered by the sight but in spite of the dancing flames the fire gave little warmth. If anything the room felt colder than when I’d arrived. Filled with a sense of unease I was pleased to see Howard appear with two large glasses and a bottle of single malt.

‘There’s plenty more where this came from,’ he said, pouring the whisky and raising his glass. ‘Here’s wishing you an eventful new year.’

‘And here’s wishing you the same,’ I replied although being a retired widower living alone I couldn’t imagine the coming year being more eventful than any other. Since my wife’s death I’d become a recluse, set in my ways. Most days were the same - a stroll into town, the walk back home, perfunctory nods to passing acquaintances, coffee, the crossword, lunch, the News, an afternoon’s nap and a few hours in front of the tele before setting off to the club. There were people there I’d known for years and we’d spend most nights talking over old times and putting the world to rights. Others mixed in similar groups. Only Howard kept himself to himself sitting alone in a corner observing everyone without making any effort to get involved. Yet here I was away from my normal circle of friends having dinner with a virtual stranger.

‘Is it too dark for you?’ Howard asked downing his drink in a single gulp and refilling his glass.

‘A little,’ I admitted, thinking he’d switch on the lights.

‘I thought it might be. I’ll fetch some more candles. I won’t be long.’ And so for the second time I was left to look at the room and wait for what seemed like an age before he reappeared with two candles. Placing one on the table and the other on the wooden chest he returned to his chair. The flickering light from the candles produced a weird display of shadows dancing over the walls transforming the place into how I imagined Hell might look. It was disconcerting to say the least and increased my already growing sense of foreboding.

Howard seemed happy enough. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I’ve never liked electric lights. Candles add to the ambiance don’t you think?’ I gave him a non-committal smile. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I invited you here tonight and none of the others.’

‘I suppose I am,’ I admitted. ‘The invitation was something of a surprise.’

Howard topped up our glasses. ‘I’ve noticed the way you look at me no doubt wondering why I sit alone at the club never mixing with anyone.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied, untruthfully. ‘You seemed contented with your own company and why not? There are times when we all prefer to be left alone.’

‘True, though I wasn’t exactly alone. I was more engaged with each of you than you might have realised.’

‘Oh, in what way?’

‘Watching, taking everything in, getting the measure of each of you. I too needed someone to talk to you see but it had to be the right person.’

‘And you thought that might be me?’

‘Yes, but only after observing your friends.’

Describing each one he summarised their main characteristics with perceptive accuracy: Eric Short, the retired clerk who was only interested in talking about himself; Arthur Dawes, the retired headteacher who was so fond of his own voice he failed to notice when others lost interest; Geoff Godwin who turned every subject around to an unrelated incident he remembered and expounded on at length; Bob Wilson who looked permanently bored; Michael Farrow who was always impatient and David Green whose attention constantly wandered.

Although I felt annoyed that he should be criticising friends of mine he’d never met I had to admit he had them off to a tee. ‘So what were your thoughts about me?’ I asked.

‘Ah, you were different. You listened to the others attentively noticing subtle nuances, seeing through their words to the meaning behind them. There was something about you, a certain susceptibility and vulnerability marking you out as someone receptive and understanding, someone I could talk to.’

‘And you had something you wanted to share with me?’

‘I did, but that’s for later.’

By now I was feeling light-headed and was pleased to hear Howard mention food. ‘I was never much of a cook,’ he said, ‘but there’s a beef stew on the stove. I’d better see how it’s coming along. Join me in the kitchen if you’d like.’

I followed him to the kitchen door and paused by the wooden chest where the candlelight fell on a collection of framed photographs of various individuals whose features were obscured in shadow.

‘Has something caught your eye?’ Howard asked.

‘Only these photos. Are they friends of yours?’

‘I thought you might ask. Yes friends or acquaintances. They were colleagues at work.’ He lifted the candle and taking each photo in turn he described their subjects and what had happened to each: Marcus, once a director but now in an institution, mad as a hatter; Simon and Matthew who wrongly believed they were inseparable; Gary who met with an untimely death; Tom whose obsession with the occult led to tragic consequences; Trevor who was wrongly imprisoned for life through no fault of his own and Paul, missing presumed dead. ‘But this,’ he sighed, picking up the last of the photos and pausing to catch his breath, ‘this is a woman I hardly knew but as you’ll discover, a woman whose tale is the strangest of all and my main reason for asking you here.’

By now I was intrigued and eager to know all about them but Howard was already leading me into the kitchen with its oak-beamed ceiling and oil-fired range on which the stew was slowly simmering.

‘There’s home-made bread in the oven,’ he said. After he’d sampled the stew and checked the oven we returned to our chairs.

Wondering what to talk about next I mentioned the music. ‘That piece I heard when I was standing in the porch, was it you playing?’

‘It was. Did you like it?’

‘Very much. I should like to hear it again sometime.’

‘Then I’ll play it for you now. It’s the Aria from Bach’s Goldberg Variations, an architectural masterpiece!’

Whatever it was or whoever had written the piece, it sounded extremely restful. The melody drifted along like a slow-running river rising and falling with intricate twiddles like eddies all timed to perfection. And listening as a child might to a lilting lullaby I drifted into a state of complete relaxation. His fingers caressed every note as though each was a long-lost friend he’d known and was now remembering. Completely entranced I sat back in that old, leather chair wanting the music to last for ever when Howard suddenly paused just as the piece was about to end.

‘Is there more to come?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ he said letting his little finger fall belatedly on the final note. ‘There’s far more to come but first we must eat.’ He served up the stew with the homemade bread and we sat to eat.

2: Variation 5 - Marcus

I enjoyed every mouthful of what turned out to be a simple yet nourishing meal. After we’d finished I gladly accepted another glass of single malt. ‘That music,’ I reminded him, ‘you said there was more to come.’

‘Indeed there is.’ He went back to the piano. ‘What do you think of this?’ Suddenly his hands thundered across the keyboard at lightning speed performing a piece which was deafeningly loud and not particularly restful. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What did you make of that?’

‘It was... different from the first piece, a little frenetic but certainly full of vitality,’ I suggested diplomatically.

‘Vitality, exactly - and that was Marcus - exuberant, spirited, energetic and irrepressible, just like that fifth variation.’

‘Ah yes, Marcus. Wasn’t he the senior architect in the first photograph you showed me, the one who...’

‘Went completely off his rocker and ended up in a madhouse? Yes, that was Marcus. Quite a story! Why don’t we sit in front of the fire and I’ll tell you all about it.’

***

In a tastefully converted barn on a wooded hillside near Sherborne, Rebecca Blake was getting the children ready for bed. Never an easy task it was proving to be more difficult than usual on this particular night since Michael, a boisterous ten year-old and his younger sister Laura, were over-excited. Tomorrow would be the first day of their annual family holiday.

‘Can we stay up till dad gets home?’ Michael asked.

‘Only if you get into your pyjamas ready for bed.’

Eight miles away her husband Marcus stood on the porch steps of the office and glanced at the brass plaque screwed to the wall - Hoskins, Dyer and Blake - Architects. Being an enthusiast who enjoyed his work he wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not about taking time off for a holiday on the Isle of Wight. He would rather be flying to somewhere more exciting. Two weeks in a self-catering cottage seemed dull by comparison. Sadly foreign holidays were out of the question. Rebecca suffered from claustrophobia and would never be tempted to board a plane. And Marcus who’d always lived in the fast lane would never agree to travel abroad by coach or car. But what did it matter, Costa Rica or Cowes? Being positive by nature he’d enjoy himself wherever they went. With one last glance at the plaque he climbed into the Land Rover and headed for home.

Later that night Marcus tucked the children up and answered their endless questions about the Isle of Wight in his own inventive and spellbinding way. He filled their minds with fantastic images of an island more mysterious and magical than any dreamt up by Arthur Ransome or Enid Blyton.

‘Do you think it’s wise to be building up their expectations with stories like that? They’ll only be disappointed when they get there and discover it’s no different from anywhere else.’ Rebecca had overheard everything and was sipping a glass of wine as they sat to eat. Earlier in their relationship Marcus’s ability to spin silly yarns had amused her but over time she’d come to regard them as tiresome and infantile.

‘Don’t worry. They won’t. I’ll make sure of that.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Rebecca’s only experience of the island was a vague childhood memory of a day trip to Ryde and of being dragged up a steep hill to look at a church with a steeple. She expected this holiday to be an equally forgettable experience and in retrospect would wish that it had been.

It was nearly noon on the following day when the car ferry docked at Fishbourne after a choppy crossing in weather more like March than June. With everyone glad to be out of the wind and back in the car Marcus started the engine and inched his way towards the gangway. ‘That’s one small drive for a car and one giant island to explore,’ he said in his best Neil Armstrong drawl as the wheels moved on to the tarmac.

‘I wonder what language they’ll speak.’ Laura was convinced that by crossing the Solent they’d landed on foreign soil.

‘English stupid,’ sneered Michael crushing his sister’s curiosity and prompting a sharp rebuke from his mother which dampened everyone’s spirits. As they headed for Cowes there was little to see but hedges and trees on either side of the road. It wasn’t until they crossed the creek at Wootton Bridge that the landscape opened out and with it the children’s interest in where they were.

Soon after the creek a roundabout came into view with two possible exits. ‘Which way now?’ shrieked Marcus pretending to panic. ‘Newport or East Cowes? ’

‘You choose, daddy!’ said Laura never doubting her father always knew what to do for the best.

‘East Cowes it is then!’ Marcus had long since pre-planned the journey knowing the East Cowes route with its floating bridge would excite the children.

The wind had dropped when they reached the river Medina glistening ahead with its odd assortment of quayside buildings lining the banks of Cowes on the opposite shore.

‘Wow!’ squealed Michael staring ahead in disbelief at the strange contraption attached to its heavy chains. ‘Are we crossing on that?’

Marcus was right. The children were overwhelmed as the ferry moved away from the shore. The Isle of Wight would be full of surprises just as he’d promised them.

Since it was only two o’clock and they weren’t expected at the cottage till four they decided to park the car and stretch their legs. In need of refreshment they found a café. Once seated Marcus turned his attention to Rebecca. Shorter than Marcus, her dark, shoulder-length hair was beginning to silver in places. A little tubby (or cuddly as Marcus described her) she’d given up a promising career as a solicitor in order to care for the family. As an active member of the PTA and parent representative on the school governing body it had been Rebecca who’d involved herself with the everyday lives of the children sorting out squabbles and laying down the rules. Marcus was more like a friendly uncle, happy to play the good guy leaving Rebecca to deal with the bad stuff. Noticing the shadows under her eyes and her anxious expression he wondered what she was thinking. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes, why shouldn’t it be?’

‘Just that you look tired.’

‘It’s been a long journey.’

‘And there’s nothing else bothering you?’

‘Nothing I can put my finger on, just a weird feeling.’

‘What sort of weird feeling?’

‘Just weird that’s all. It came on last night after you’d put the children to bed, a sense that something awful would happen while we were here and I haven’t been able to shake it off.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ he asked not really wanting to her to talk about feelings. ‘Nothing nasty is going to happen. We’ve arrived without having an accident on the way, neither of the ferries sank and it looks as though the weather’s on the up so ...’

‘So cheer up, I know’. Rebecca had been with him long enough to understand when he’d rather to not hear any more. ‘Don’t worry! I’ll be all right.’

‘Good,’ said Marcus choosing to believe her. From the café they strolled down to the quay and gazed across the Solent to the flat, dull shoreline enveloped in haze on the other side. ‘Strange isn’t it?’ said Marcus. ‘The island looks so much more exciting from the mainland than the mainland does from the Island.’

‘That’s because islands are magical,’ Laura explained.

‘Exactly Laura and there’s more to see. Come on! Let’s get back to the car.’

After their long day’s travel the relatively short journey to the cottage seemed endless by comparison. Thankfully there were a few distractions to occupy the children including glimpses of the prison. Acting in character Marcus invented fictitious tales of the wicked deeds the offenders had committed and how careful they would have to be especially at night when escaped convicts would be on the prowl. Michael took it all with a pinch of salt but Laura took it to heart and was unusually silent for several minutes.

Rebecca sensed her anxiety. ‘Don’t worry Laura, Daddy was only joking.’

‘You’re mother’s right,’ said Marcus knowing he’d overstepped the mark, ‘besides, you’ve always got me to protect you if anything happens.’

***

‘What none of them realised,’ said Howard, ‘was that later that day something stranger than anything Marcus could have invented would trigger events that would alter the course of their lives for ever.’

Until that point I was so engrossed in the tale that the only voices in my head were those of the family. Howard’s voice took me away from them back to the present. I was drifting between two worlds. The Island had vanished and in its place was Howard’s cavernous room which felt darker and colder now in spite of the glow from the fire.

Howard poked the embers and threw on another log. ‘I’m sorry, did I disturb you? Let me top up your glass.’

Moments later I was back on the island travelling with the family to wherever the tale was leading.

***

The cottage when they arrived looked more like a converted cowshed than comfortable holiday accommodation. ‘Here’s where we’ll be staying’, said Marcus as everyone stared at their holiday home standing on the side of a rutted drive leading down to a farmhouse where the owners lived. They drove in and piled out of the car. Just as Marcus was about to lift the knocker the door was opened by a tall, lean-looking man wearing rimless glasses. ‘You must be the Blakes,’ he smiled. ‘I’m John. Pleased to meet you.’ He called out to his wife in the gentlest of voices, ‘Margot dear, the Blakes have arrived.’

Margot was several years younger than John. She was tall and willowy with long dark hair and lively intelligent eyes. She welcomed them all but took a particular interest in the children and asked if they’d been to the island before. Laura adoring her on sight explained that although she’d never been to the island her father had told her all about it.

Knowing Laura would want to enlarge at length Rebecca stepped in and changed the subject. She asked Margot about the keys, the dustbins, provisions for washing and drying, the whereabouts of nearest shops and all the other domestic questions that nobody else would have thought of asking. With everything settled they said their farewells and started unloading the Land Rover bundling everything into the holiday home.

The sun was still high in the sky and the afternoon heat was building rapidly. Not ready to unpack and wanting to get into the holiday mood, Marcus uncorked a bottle. ‘We can do all this later,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we have a drink, chill out and go for a walk?’

‘You go with the children,’ Rebecca said, ‘I’ll stay and sort things out.’

Guessing she was still apprehensive and wanting some time on her own Marcus drank his wine and with no idea where he’d take them set off with the children.

Still feeling apprehensive Rebecca was glad to see them go. They were miles from the nearest shop, miles from anywhere. The journey down had been a nightmare and her anxieties showed no signs of lifting. She wished she could force herself to board a plane. Marcus was happy enough wherever he went and so were the children but she would prefer to have been somewhere more exotic. She pictured the Taj Mahal in the Indian sun and wondered if anywhere on the Island could even begin to match it. Although they were high on the downs there was nothing to see but flat fields, hedgerows and makeshift outbuildings. She was yet to discover that not far away an overgrown path would lead to a place which, if not quite as grand as the Taj Mahal, would intrigue her and set her thinking about its possibilities. But for now there were clothes to be sorted, empty drawers and wardrobes to be filled, food to be stored in the fridge and a meal to be thought about before the family returned. With no more than a passing thought as to where Marcus and the children were or what they’d be doing she set to work determined to make the place as comfortable as possible.

Michael and Laura meanwhile were trailing behind their father along a concrete track through open farmland. The wind had dropped and the dusty fields were barren apart from a scattering of empty barns and the odd black crow pecking at the soil in the sultry heat.

‘When are we going back?’ whined Laura who’d already had enough and was starting to doubt that the island was all her father had said it would be.

‘See that little copse? We’ll go as far as there and then turn back,’ Marcus promised.

‘They’re only trees,’ groaned Michael. ‘We can see trees at home.’

‘Ah but these will be different. They’re island trees.’

Michael shrugged but Laura believed the extra mile would be worth the effort. They carried on until they reached the copse which looked more like a forest close up. ‘What’s that?’ said Marcus, feigning surprise and pointing at a fallen tree trunk entangled in brambles barring the way to an overgrown path through the woods. ‘Let’s take a closer look.’

The fallen trunk could only be reached by crossing a ditch full of nettles and climbing over a barbed wire fence. Laura was having second thoughts but egged on by the others she scrambled across and gazed at a half-concealed notice beside the path bearing the words, KEEP OUT!

‘Where do you think it goes?’ asked Michael. He’d clambered over the trunk and was busy beating a passage towards the notice with a stick.

‘Do you know daddy?’ Laura was frightened but nonetheless curious.

The questions were all Marcus needed to feed their imaginations with fanciful tales. Adopting a grave expression and lowering his voice he said it would lead to somewhere secretive and exciting where no one had dared to go for a very long time which was why the track was so overgrown. The only way to know where it led was to follow the track.

‘Let’s go,’ said Michael.

‘We can’t,’ cried Laura resisting more from fear than respect for the law. ‘The sign says KEEP OUT!’

‘Don’t be silly. There are lots of places at home with signs telling you to keep out and when you go in there’s nobody there.’

‘Well there might be somebody here.’

‘Scaredy-cat! Anyway I’ve got a stick if anyone tries to stop us.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Marcus. ‘We can always turn back if we don’t like it.’ He held Laura’s hand while Michael rushed on ahead thrashing at bracken and anything else that stood in their way. Fearing the path would lead nowhere and anticipating the children’s disappointment Marcus did what he could to spin magic from every sudden and unexpected sound. The clap of wings from a startled pigeon and ratchet-like clack of a hidden Magpie he turned into mythical monsters intent on driving away intruders. He was so convincing that even Michael began to believe him. Eventually they reached the clearing and saw the house. A grass pathway led towards a rusty metal arch long since denuded of climbing roses and beyond it stood the house surrounded by a high hedge.

Laura was petrified. ‘Someone might live there. Let’s go back’.

Michael had no such fears. ‘Don’t be silly it’s empty. Nobody’s lived there for years.’

It certainly looked deserted though not entirely derelict and to Marcus’s trained eye the building aroused his professional interest. More of a mansion than a house it appeared to be late Victorian Gothic with rooftop finials, pointed arches and dormer windows staring down like malevolent eyes as they flashed in the sunlight. And just for a moment, or so Marcus thought, a curtain in one of them twitched and a face appeared. Assuming it must be a trick of the light he chose not to mention it to the children.

Away from the shelter of trees the heat of the sun burned stronger than ever. They followed the path towards the arch and pausing beneath it noticed a sudden drop in temperature which disappeared as soon as they moved on.

‘Nothing to worry