The Whispering Wall

The first time Lucile heard the crying it was the dead of a summer’s afternoon. That quiet time when people sleep in foreign lands. She assumed it was her next door neighbour’s boy, until she remembered they were on holiday. When she told Edward that evening he smiled and shook his head.

‘You’re imagining it. Either that, or the bloody woman’s invited some of her friends to use the house while she’s away,’ he said, returning to The Independent.

‘We’d hear them now if there were visitors, wouldn’t we Eddy?’

He peered over the pages, eyes bloodshot, and said, ‘Probably. I can’t imagine any of her lot being quiet. But look Lulu, it’s all in your head. Not surprising, after everything you’ve been through.’

‘We’ve been through,’ she whispered. ‘Anyway, I rather like her.’

‘You need to rest more darling,’ he said, before disappearing behind his newspaper again. ‘You’re overdoing it.’

Lucile wondered how she could possibly be overdoing it. She hadn’t worked in six months, not since she had been ill, and she had done nothing in the house. The move had been Edward’s idea. She needed somewhere quieter, somewhere to build a future, he said. Highgate was perfect; the house backed onto the cemetery, a place they both loved. Had loved. Edward rarely went there nowadays.

Later, Lucile lay in bed staring at the walls, an unread book resting on her breast. She could hear the soft rise and fall of Edward’s breathing. She closed the novel, rolled over and watched him sleep. His forehead glistened in the dull light, his mouth hung ajar and this slackness gave him the appearance of youth. His torso was exposed and she longed to stroke the fleshy rise of his belly. To feel his skin against hers. She reached out, and then stopped. Her hand hovered over his chest, the hairs tickling her palms. Sighing Lucile turned over and closed her eyes; he would be furious if she woke him up.

She woke to the sound of whimpering. The room was clothed in shadow. She sat up. Silence. She lay down. It came again, louder this time. From the corner of the room. Lucile pulled the duvet aside and climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb a dreaming Edward. He was muttering; it sounded like someone’s name though Lucile couldn’t make it out. She stood for a moment, her feet welcoming the cool of the bare floorboards; a slight breeze blew round her ankles and she realised that the bathroom window had been left open. She went to close it, looking out over the gardens first, half expecting to see Samantha and her boy.

Crazy. It’s the middle of the night. Of course there’re not there. They’re on holiday anyway, you fool.

As she crept back to the bedroom it came again. The crying. From the far wall. The party wall. Covered its entire length with a deep wardrobe. Not quite a walk-in, but large enough for the estate agent to mention it three, maybe four, times. Lucile grasped the stainless steel handles and slid the heavy doors apart. Dresses, jackets, shirts and suits swayed from side to side like tired dancers at the end of an evening’s revelry. She pushed a handful of frocks aside and leant in. Nothing. She waited, but the crying had stopped. The only sound a soothing rustling of plastic covered shirts, fresh from the dry cleaners.

As she prepared Edward’s breakfast Lucile decided not to mention the crying again. Edward would only think she was making a fuss, or fret about her, and she didn’t want him to do that. He had enough to worry about as it was, with his recent promotion and the increased pressure this brought in an already stressful environment.

He sat down at the breakfast bar smelling of aftershave. Lucile didn’t recognise the fragrance and was about to ask what it was when Edward said, ‘Lulu darling, I’m afraid I have to go away again. One of Iain’s clients, his mother’s had another episode. Needs 24 hour care, at least until he gets a home sorted.’

‘God, how awful, poor Iain. And Teri. Do pass on my thoughts… that I’m thinking of them. Of Mrs Bridge.’

‘I will, sweetheart. Bloody inconsiderate disease Alzheimer’s.’

Lucile smiled at his feeble attempt to make light of Iain’s pain. He came up behind her and squeezed her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t mention this last night. I didn’t want to upset you, you know, after that crying business. You’ll be alright won’t you, darling?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, I’ll be fine. Are you going anywhere exciting?’ She turned the bacon in the grill.

‘God no. Brussels, then The Hague - bloody boring places. Nothing for you to concern yourself with. I’ll bring you something lovely.’

He sat down again.

‘Why don’t you get some of your old friends over while I’m away? It’d do you good.’

She passed him a breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns (a favourite since a recent trip to New York) and said, ‘I’m not sure, Eddy. If I’m ready for that. I just don’t know if I can face the questions. What I’m up to, why the move, why we haven’t got children yet…’

‘None of their bloody business, that’s what you tell them. That you’re trying to forget, move on.’

‘It’s not that I want to forget,’ she thought, but instead she said, ‘Calm down Eddy. It’s not as if they’ve actually said anything. I’m nervous that’s all.’

‘Well, there’s no need to be. Look, darling, I’ve got to shoot. Sorry about the food. Have a good day.’ And with that he was gone.

Another eleven, twelve hours to fill before he returned home. Lucile took a leisurely bath and strolled into the village. It was such a contrast to Chelsea. Intimate, higgledy-piggledy, leafy. It was beautiful day and everywhere she went there were babies in buggies, mothers with small children on wooden trikes, women with swollen bellies and happy, smiling faces. She turned round and walked to the cemetery.

It was quiet, hot and sultry. Flowers bowed in the heat on the graves of the recently departed, twigs snapped under foot as Lucile ambled into the heart of the graveyard. She sought respite in the shade of the Circle of Lebanon and walked it until she was dizzy, and, though she fought against it, she found herself at the tombs and headstones of children. Precious, stolen children. Beloved. Dead, but not forgotten. Immortalised in stone etchings, watched over by angels.

Ten days passed before Lucile heard the crying again. It was night-time and Edward was away. She sat in the wardrobe for two hours or more, waiting and listening, ear pressed against the stone wall. A mewling. Plaintive, lonely, then a demanding, angry howl. Finally, exhausted, pleading sobbing. It sounded like a boy. In the morning Lucile knocked on her neighbour’s front door. The paint work was chipped and peeling. No answer. They had not returned from holiday.

For three nights Lucile rose and waited for the child. But he did not come.

‘Christ, Lulu, are you all right? You look terrible. What’s happened?’

Edward came into the kitchen clutching half a dozen white lilies. He looked pale and apologetic. But he had remembered a gift. Her favourite flower, the lilies’ heady aroma weighted the already tight air. Lost for words Lucile looked at him, silent, still. He looked desperate, guilty. She turned her back to him as she lied, ‘Nothing. I’ve not been sleeping that’s all.’

‘Are you out of pills? Ask the doctor for more. I could do with a few myself. I’m bushed.’

Edward certainly slept deeply. He retired to bed early and was asleep by the time Lucile emerged from the bathroom in a lace trimmed baby doll nightdress. She slung the frills onto the floor and climbed into her cotton pyjamas, brushing her hands over her wide hips and full breasts. She felt betrayed by her adult body, let down. It promised so much.

That night the boy returned. Lucile heard him crying through the wall. She sat on the floor and pressed her face and palms against the wallpaper. She could see him now. Blonde and pink with blue eyes and fleshy thighs. How she longed to hold him. To cuddle him, comfort him.

For five nights he came. She heard him. And then he stopped visiting. Weeks went by. And still the neighbours hadn’t returned. Edward was on another business trip, and Lucile was lonelier than ever. It hurt. She sat in the wardrobe for hours, day and night, waiting for him.

And then, late one afternoon he came. But he was faint, as if he were at the end of a long tunnel and not the other side of a few bricks. Lucile moved along the stretch of the wall, and it was when she was crushed into the corner, listening, that she noticed. Where the wall met the shelf made for shoes the wallpaper was loose, bubbling, almost peeling. Lucile picked at it with her fingernails and tore at the paper. It came away in her hands, a triangular piece around a metre high. It revealed another layer of paper. Blue and grey stripes, dated. This one was harder to remove so Lucile went to the kitchen for a knife. Away came another layer. Large pink flowers this time, roses or carnations she thought, set in a yellowing background of stems and thorns and frayed leaves. Another layer, non-descript, cheap. Then another, and another. And then a dusty faded print: sandy teddy bears with burgundy ribbons round their necks. Nursery paper.

She pushed her nose to the wall and sniffed. It smelt of talcum powder and camomile, and as she pulled away she saw the pencil mark. A squiggle, like a child’s handwriting or mark. The message concealed by paper still attached to the wall.

Lucile was sweating. She stepped out of the wardrobe. It was early evening: dusk. She marched across the garden and into the shed. Amidst the chaos she retrieved a torch, a scraper, and a hammer. Heart racing she returned to the bedroom. Throwing clothes and shoes onto the bed Lucile went at the wall armed with a wet sponge and the metal scraper. The paper slipped off the wall with ease. She followed the letters, jagged, scrawling, childish letters. She couldn’t read the message at first, but she persevered.

Help me. Help mummy help.

And the crying filled her head. She tore off the teddy bears to reveal the brickwork. She smashed at the wall with her hammer, chipping away at the crumbling red bricks. And the crying continued yet. She threw aside the hammer in despair and bolted across the lawn in her bare feet. In the gloaming she searched for the pickaxe.

She tapped along the wall with the hammer. A cavity. She was certain of it. She picked up the pickaxe and swung it at the wall. Bricks cracked and fell to the floor in a cloud of dust. Coughing and spluttering she pulled at the stone, snapping her nails, blood trickling from her battered hands. The crying grew louder and louder until she thought she could bear it no longer and then, quite suddenly, it stopped.

Lucile was staring at the remains of a child. Buried in a chamber in the solid wall. Unafraid, she went to touch the skull, reaching out her shredded, bloodied hands when she felt a fluttering in her belly. An unmistakable fluttering. The stirrings of a child. An unborn child. She took in the blood on her hands and tried to remember the last time she had bled. It was weeks ago. Weeks and weeks and weeks ago. Before the wall began to whisper.