House of Dreams

It was the house, or rather the space it had once occupied that first attracted my attention. I’d come across it one sultry summer evening when the heavy atmosphere had driven me outdoors to find what little air I could in the streets.  I’d wandered aimlessly, straying further than I’d first intended, until I found myself in the older part of town.  On the few occasions I’d driven through that district nothing much had caught my attention but that evening, in the strange light that often precedes a storm, the place looked different. The old buildings seemed to have gained new, more interesting, dimensions. 

An agent’s catalogue might have described the houses in Gladstone Road as Victorian mansions. Now most of them were run down, some let out as flats or bed-sitters, others being restored—hopefully to their former glory.

Walking on towards what looked like a copse or small wood situated on the other side of the road my attention was sidetracked to the place once occupied by number ten. This corner plot was larger than any of the neighbouring gardens and the building had gone. It was as if the house had been had been extracted like a painful tooth leaving an unsightly gap. The garden, neglected and overgrown harboured trees and bushes that drooped under the louring skies, giving the impression of being unable to come to terms with what was missing.  

A boundary wall guarded the dereliction of what remained of the property.  Rose bay willow herb and brambles were colonising the crumbled foundations, giving testimony to the proportions of the former dwelling, making it seem likely that the house had been larger, perhaps taller than its neighbours in Gladstone Road.  

At that moment, distracted by a sound, I turned to see a man coming from the wood. His dog, a black and white spaniel walked obediently at his side.

He crossed over and came towards me. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see you are interested in what remains of Sparkfield House.’

‘I’ve only just discovered it. Have you some connection?’

‘It was my family’s house. Magnificent in its time—built by my grandfather, William Sparks, mill owner and benefactor of this town.’ 

He leaned against the wall, his dog beside him.  I judged his age to be close to mine—perhaps late twenties or thereabouts. He was handsome, with black glossy hair and unexpectedly blue eyes. His tweed suit, obviously bespoke, fitted his rangy frame to perfection but there was an old fashioned quality about it, not something you could buy in the High Street.

‘The house must have been demolished some time ago, Mr Sparks,’ I said.

‘Oh, I can’t remember when and I’m not Mr Sparks. William was my maternal grandfather. Might I ask your name?’  His smile demanded a response.

‘I’m Heather Greenlees.’

‘Heather,’ he repeated my name. ‘It doesn’t suit you. I think you should be Erica.’ 

 I frowned, disconcerted by his changing my name, but quickly realised he was teasing.   

‘Have you consider selling the plot?’ I asked.  ‘A builder might pay well to develop it.’

 ‘A builder would turn it into a monstrosity of high rise flats,’ he said. ‘Besides I have little interest in selling the plot. The money means nothing to me. Of course, if a pretty lady such as yourself were to want it—to build a house, perhaps on the same lines as Sparkfield, then I’d give it my consideration.’

He was flirting with me but his mannerisms, if a little exaggerated, were attractive. I told him about my brother Mark who was a property developer.

‘Might he build a house for you here? If so, I’d agree to sell at a reasonable price—on condition—’

‘On what condition?’ I asked.

‘That you would invite me to visit occasionally.’

Was it the flash of lightning or the sound of distant thunder that sent a shiver down my spine?  Or perhaps it was something in his tone of voice that chilled me. Instinctively I began to move away. ‘I ought to be going,’ I said. ‘The rain is coming.’

He stepped towards me and I retreated further.

‘Will you think about buying my plot?’ he said

I nodded. ‘But I don’t know who you are or where to get in touch with you?’

‘I’ll give you my card.’

As he searched his pockets for the card, the first drops of rain began to fall. Snatching it from him I started to run back down Gladstone Road, keeping close to the garden walls to avoid the fat raindrops that soaked into my summer clothes. Under a large spreading tree I stopped to catch my breath and looked back to see the man and his dog returning along the woodland path from which they’d come. They strolled in a leisurely fashion, obviously impervious to the torrential rain.

 Later I recounted the story to my brother.

‘Gladstone Road,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that close to Farthing Wood?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘There is a wood there.’

‘That wood is soon to be cleared for redevelopment,’ he said. ‘All that land belonged to some old geyser who owned a couple of mills by the river. They were built in the 1870s and demolished only recently. Couldn’t be your chap’s grandfather though. More like his great or even his great-great grandfather?  I think your friend was having you on.’

‘You ought to look at the plot,’ I said. ‘You might make him an offer.’

In the weeks that followed, the stranger I’d met in Gladstone Road was the last thing on my mind. The firm of business consultants for whom I worked opened a branch in York and asked me to manage it. As well as coping with new responsibilities, I had to sell my flat and buy another and it was Christmas Day at our parent’s house before I saw my brother again.

 After dinner Mark brought up the subject of Gladstone Road.

‘Remember that plot near Farthing Wood?’ he said.

I nodded sleepily.

‘Well, I did look it over. The district is showing signs of recovery.  I discovered that William Sparks had the house built about the same time as the mills and founded an orphanage in Farthing Road as well. That building still stands but now it’s a women’s refuge or something.  Sparkfield House was demolished after a fire in 1920.’

‘Mr Sparks must have been an old man by then,’ I said.

‘He was dead,’ Mark said. ‘His only daughter lived there with her husband and son.  The son was Frederick Millington, a playboy and a waster. Apparently he murdered his father and mother and set fire to the house. Mind you, he paid the price for his crime—was hung for it.’

Mark had checked the old newspapers in the archives. ‘I thought you’d be interested, sis. I’ve copies of the papers in my briefcase.’

Soon I was reading that Frederick, under the influence of drink and opium, had hacked his mother and father to bits with an axe. My heart nearly froze in my chest when I read that his mother’s name was Erica. 

‘Do you think your man might be connected to the family?’ Mark asked. ‘I’d like to get that plot but there seems to be a mystery as to whom it belongs.’

‘He gave me his card,’ I said. ‘I have it in my purse.’

I was still searching for the card when my brother gave me another cutting.

‘See if Frederick bears any resemblance to your chap,’ he said.

The picture was faded and grainy but I could see the family likeness to the man I’d met in Gladstone Road The features were the same—large eyes, dark hair, the mouth curved in a smile that seemed to mock the camera. Frederick stood tall and elegant in a suit almost identical in style to the one my acquaintance had worn the day we’d met in Gladstone Road. But what shocked me most was that in the photograph there was spaniel pressed close to Frederick’s leg.   

I found the business card and Mark took it from my shaking fingers.

He glanced at it. ‘There’s no name or address on this card. What are you playing at, sis?’

‘I’m sure that’s the card he gave me.’

‘Well, can’t you remember his name? Have you no idea where I might find him?’

I took the card from him and scrutinised it. It was faded and discoloured, perhaps from the rain. I ran my thumb over its surface and felt the embossed relief of the first letter, an elegant flourish in the shape of an F pressing into my skin.  I tossed the card quickly into the grate where Christmas logs were burning.

My brother gave me a quizzical look.

‘I’m sorry, Mark, ’ I said. ‘That card can’t have been the one I was given. And now I can’t help you because the man never did tell me his name.’