Shocked, I take a step backwards, and trip over my suitcase. I lunge for the porch frame to steady myself, but fall backwards anyway. A loud splintering sound is followed by a long moment of imminence, as if some key part of the world hangs in the balance, then the whole rickety structure comes down with a groan, showering me in shards of rotten wood and glass. Rolling sideways, I manage to get out of the way just before the porch’s pitched roof lands like a miniature pyramid amid the carnage.
Sitting up, I register that I have a sore tailbone and a grazed palm. My right ankle throbs. I test it, circling my foot. Not broken. I stare up at the house, at the naked patch of granite that has been sheltered by the porch for, no doubt, centuries, through the rise and fall of kings and queens and two world wars, and feel sick.
Despite the noise, the door remains closed and no face appears at the dark windows, and after a time it becomes clear no one is coming out.
My belongings have sprung out of my suitcase and strewn themselves down the steps: a spill of knickers, make-up and spare clothes mingling with escaped letters and notebooks. And then the sky turns black, and rain comes pelting down, soaking everything in an instant.
I stumble down the steps, half blinded by weather, swearing in frustration, and quickly gather the letters before they can be ruined or fly off into the storm. So intent am I, that I do not hear footsteps until a pair of feet comes into view, clad in a pair of huge, scuffed brogues tied with mismatched laces.
Pushing wet hair out of my eyes, I stare up into a face as wrinkled as an old russet apple, haloed by a misshapen golf umbrella with two or three broken struts hanging down.
‘Mind the stingers, bird,’ this person says and holds out something black and green.
My most fancy knickers, a strand of stinging nettle tangled in the leg opening. Grasping the nettle is something I have consistently failed to do in my life and now is no exception. I burst into tears.
‘Ah, don’t take on.’ The umbrella-holder stuffs the underwear into a pocket and extends a large hand. ‘The Lord sends such travails to try our faith.’
I force a grin. ‘I’m fine, really.’
‘That’s splann. Upsadaisy.’
A hand snakes under my armpit. Shocked by this unwanted intimacy, I shoot to my feet, cradling the broken suitcase, clothes lolling out of it like intestines from a slit belly. ‘I’m sorry about the porch,’ I say.
The person stoops to pick up the basket. ‘It were only held together by spider-thread and memories.’
Is this Olivia Kitto? She, or he, certainly looks old enough. But if it is Cousin Olivia, then who shouted the obscenity?
It’s as if the embrogued person has read my thoughts. ‘I’m Jeremiah Sparrow. Folk call me Jem,’ he says, covering me with the broken umbrella, though it is far too late for this courtly gesture. ‘And who are you? She never been one for welcoming strangers.’
‘I’m Rebecca Young. I’ve come instead of my mum, who’s…’ I can’t bring myself to say the word.
Jem’s expression becomes guarded. ‘Oh ah? She never mentioned you. Why you here?’
‘Cousin Olivia wrote to Mum to ask if she’d come down to help her.’
Jeremiah stills. Then he turns his head up to the house, scrutinizing it through half-closed eyes. ‘Did she now?’ he says softly. ‘Never mentioned it to me or the missus.’ He looks back at me. ‘Well, I’m here to see to Gabriel.’
Gabriel. I remember now that in Mum’s letter, Olivia had referred to her companion. Her unhygienic companion. Feeling some trepidation, I follow Jem to the door, which he opens up, and we enter a gloomy hallway.
Inside, the house seems huge, much bigger than it appears from outside. A long corridor between panelled walls disappears into distant murk. A staircase ascends into darkness. The place smells of mildew, and something worse. I set my suitcase down on the tiles, ready to greet my elderly relative. Jem does not announce himself but just crosses the hall and flicks the light switch. Nothing happens. ‘Agh, bleddy thing. I swear this house is haunted by spriggans.’ He goes down the hall and drags an aluminium half-ladder out from a cupboard, sets it beneath the junction box and climbs awkwardly to the top step.
‘Where is Miss Kitto?’ I ask. Jem is muttering over the thick tangle of wires and with a sinking feeling I am sure I know the answer. There was no date on the letter. How long did it sit unopened at Mum’s flat? Weeks, or months? With some cruel symmetry have they passed away within days of one another?
Jem’s voice cuts in. ‘If you could go and open up the drawing room shutters I could see what I’m doing.’
I guess at the first door on the left. The brass doorknob fills my hand, and the catch yields with a creak. As I walk into semi-darkness, a stench stings the back of my nose as sharply as mustard. And then I feel eyes on me, a distinctly primeval sensation. Is Cousin Olivia sitting in the darkness, watching me? Or does her shade occupy one of the hulking easy chairs, a malevolent ghost bent on scaring the shit out of anyone who dares to cross the threshold? The thought is so eerie I run towards the window.
As soon as I set my hand on the shutter-bar the air in the room stirs and an unseen entity whooshes past my head.
‘Bl—ack! Blackkk!’
Something brushes my face and I yelp. Hauling the shutters open to flood the room with light, I turn to face the demon… which is regarding me balefully out of a cold, white-ringed eye from the top of the standard lamp.
It is a parrot. A grey parrot with a hooked beak and a neat fan of crimson tail-feathers and I am cast back to that long-ago Cornish holiday – a big, sunny sitting room where Mum and I sat side by side on a lumpy chintz sofa eating spicy yellow bread studded with dried fruit and spread thick with butter while from the top of a bookcase a large grey bird scrutinized our every move. I had looked away, unnerved, and in that moment it had descended on outstretched wings, dug its scaly grey claws into my saffron cake, and with a loud clatter of feathers retreated to the shelves to consume its booty. Surely it can’t be the same bird? How long do parrots live?
‘That will teach you to pay attention!’ Olivia had laughed. ‘What Gabriel wants Gabriel takes.’ Turning to him she said, ‘What will our guests think? I don’t know why we named you for an angel: you are the very devil!’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ the creature retorted.
Mum had gasped and I had clapped my hands to my mouth as if it had been me, not the bird, who had uttered these forbidden words. But the old woman was laughing, and the parrot hopped from foot to foot, hugely pleased with itself, and I suddenly burst out in such giggles that even Mum had smiled.
How could I have forgotten such a bizarre incident?
The room looks smaller now, and infinitely shabbier. The chintz roses are faded to ambiguity and all the surfaces are covered in dust and guano.
Jem shows his face at the door. ‘I see you found Gabriel,’ he says and at the sight of him Gabriel lets out a banshee caw followed by, ‘Messy moose key.’ Jem grimaces. ‘You’d think it were human sometimes.’ He wags his finger at the bird. ‘Picked the lock again, did you, you old bugger? Bleddy thing ought to have its neck wrung.’ He looks at me sharply. ‘Pardon my French. Don’t suppose you’ll want to stay: lots of diseases you can get from parrots, they say.’