What Abigail Did Tha Summer

along one after another. But at least this one is better behaved than Jan, who was trouble from the first trimester to the last. Jan kicked and squirmed but this one seems content to ride out its gestation quietly. Too quietly, although the doctor says that the heartbeat is strong and consistent and that there is nothing to worry about. Julias isn’t worried and Charles is always a comfort.
*
The refugees arrive in the middle of a heavy downpour, in big coats and carrying a meagre collection of cheap suitcases. Julias embraces both the mother and the father in the hallway, tears of relief on his cheeks. Securing their arrival has been his project for the last three weeks, he even went as far as to contact some of his old mates from the Battle of Britain. The children stand with pale shocked faces, sheltering behind their parents. I try to catch their eyes and give them a welcoming smile, but they shrink back. Julias knows either the father or the mother from the war, I can’t remember which one. Julias’s clutch of the mother goes on notably longer than that of the father. I’m guessing she’s the comrade from the war, although Julias has warned me not to use that word around the family.
*
One of the children, the boy I think, is cautiously poking his head out from behind his mother’s legs. I squat down, feeling my knees click from the baby weight, and I swear, not for the first time, that this will be our last child. Two is a perfect sufficiency to my mind, whatever either of our mothers may think. I am not some Victorian brood mare to be popping out babies until I shrivel. We prayed for years to have a child, and now we have Jan and soon a brother or sister, and that will be quite enough, thank you very much. The refugee boy has such a round and open face and cornflower-blue eyes with long lashes. I hold out my hand and he approaches cautiously, like a nervous dog. His parents don’t seem to be paying him any heed. He sidles closer and solemnly shakes my hand. I ask him his name, and he replies in formal but accented English that his name is Charles and he’s very pleased to meet me. When he smiles it really is astonishingly radiant, and I think he must be a great comfort to his family during their time of exile. I ask him if he would like to see his new bedroom and he nods shyly. I keep hold of his hand and lead him up the stairs to where Charles is waiting on the landing. I smile, knowing that Charles will take care of the boy and show him up to the rooms in the attic.
*
I’m standing on the first-floor landing. The bowling ball is gone, as are both of the Charleses, and now the fox that has flattened itself into the wall by my feet is trying to get my attention.
‘What now, genius?’ hisses Indigo.
‘Don’t move,’ I say, because I’m beginning to get a feel for how this works. Something, which I decide to call the House – capital H – grabs people . . . Not people, because we haven’t seen any elders. Grabs young people and makes them play out . . . what? Scenes from the past, maybe? It has to be real scenes because they’re too fricking boring to be fiction. So, hypothesis – the scenes are triggered when you move into different locations in the house. So, don’t move. At least not yet.
I look around slowly. The hallway runs the length of the house, with the staircase doubling back to head for the next floor up. I think I’m back in reality because the walls have been stripped and the electrics ripped out. The three internal doors on the left are missing – beyond them is shadowed space. At the far end is a sash window with the view blocked by dirty white plastic sheeting.
Downstairs I can see the hallway and the front door, the fantail window above a splash of colour in the gloom.
I tell Indigo that I’m going to move slowly down the stairs and she’s to watch me go and tell me what she sees and hears.
‘Whatever you do,’ I say, ‘don’t follow me.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ she says in a squeaky voice.
‘Hold tight, Indigo,’ I say. ‘I will not leave you in this house.’
Five steps down, the stairs go from bare wood to brown cut pile carpet with black and tan stripes running up and down each side. I freeze and ask Indigo whether she sees anything, but she says no.
Another step down, and the light from the fantail below is dimmer and there is a group of people milling around, only they’re featureless transparent shapes like the graphics they use to illustrate mandem23 in the computer simulations of building projects.
‘Anything?’ I ask Indigo.
‘There’s people,’ she says. ‘Only sort of faded.’
Interesting, the same view but from further up. If I was moving into a different frame of reference, a different zone, Indigo wouldn’t see the change except maybe I’d blur out. So, not like pushing through a curtain. More like activating a recording. Unless Indigo being a fox changes how the rules work. Once I get out of here I’m going to have to deep this. Get into the Folly’s library and see what all those dead white wizards have to say. But first I have to get out.
Another step – the fanlight dims but the people get thicker and their movements more realistic, like what you see with motion capture animation. Indigo confirms what I see, and I take another step and then another.
I’m halfway down when the figures resolve into a bunch of kids.
I recognise Nerd Boy, but the other three I don’t know. I wonder if maybe Mr and Mrs Fed had their pictures on their clipboards. Nerd Boy is still in his Save Our Seas T-shirt