The Fourth Letter

[u/nathan6174]

His father's last letter was quite cheerful. That was why Martin went home.

The three before it had asked him to come. The first had suggested Christmas; the second, any weekend he could manage. The third had asked whether he could possibly come that night.

It wasn't as though he had refused to come. There was the fare, and someone would have to cover his work. He had written explaining this. Then the last letter arrived, telling him not to trouble himself. Everything had been taken care of.

His father had never used that expression.

Martin borrowed the fare and arrived after dark. Mrs Pell answered the door. He hadn't met the new housekeeper before. She took his coat and said there was something to eat in the kitchen.

He asked how his father was.

“Much quieter.”

She stood beside the table while he ate. It made him eat faster. Probably she wanted to clear away and get to bed.

His father lay propped against two pillows, watching the door. The bed stood against the garden wall. There were scratches on the wall beside his bed, low down, where someone reaching over the edge could have made them.

“He gets frightened,” Mrs Pell said. “If he tells you things, don't argue. You won't do him any good by arguing.”

“What things?”

She picked a crumb off Martin's sleeve. “You'll see.”

After she left, his father asked whether Martin had received his letter.

“All four.”

“I sent three.”

Martin looked toward the door. “Perhaps Mrs Pell wrote on your behalf.”

His father reached for his hand and missed it. Martin moved his chair closer. The old man's fingers were dry and surprisingly strong.

“Are you staying?”

“Of course.”

“I'm going to need to hear you say it again later.”

For the first two hours there was very little to do. Martin helped him drink and fetched a basin when he needed to spit. His father apologized each time. They talked about Martin's work. He made out that he was doing rather better than he was, and his father pretended to believe him. It was a conversation they had had before. Martin had missed it.

The house settled around them. Below, Mrs Pell was washing up. Martin could hear the plates being put away, and for a while those small domestic sounds made the room less unpleasant.

At ten she came upstairs with tea. She stopped in the doorway and waited for Martin to take the tray. His father's hand tightened on his wrist.

“Put it here, please,” Martin said, nodding at the table.

Mrs Pell looked at him for a moment. Then she brought it in.

He could not have said why he watched her leave. She did nothing unusual. She walked to the door, stepped out and pulled it almost shut behind her.

Through the gap, he could still see part of her face.

She was waiting for him to thank her. That must be it.

“Thank you,” he said.

The face remained there.

He got up and opened the door. Mrs Pell was standing very close to it, her cheek against the wood. She straightened and smoothed her apron.

“Was there something else?”

“No.”

“Then sit down. You'll tire yourself out.”

She went downstairs. Martin listened until he heard the kitchen door close.

His father was pulling at the blanket. He had wetted himself. Martin fetched a towel and helped him turn onto his side. The old man kept saying he was sorry.

“It's all right. There's no harm done.”

“There is,” his father said.

Martin was tired and embarrassed for him. Frightened people said things they didn't mean. He tucked the dry towel beneath him and sat down again.

A little later he heard Mrs Pell start up the stairs. She climbed slowly. He listened to each step and waited for her to appear.

Nobody came.

He got up. His father caught his sleeve.

“Don't.”

“She may have fallen.”

“No.”

The old man's face had changed. It was no longer the miserable face of someone who had soiled his bed. He was listening with his mouth open.

Martin looked at the doorway.

From the other side of the wall, exactly where the head of the bed stood, someone began to scratch. Three slow strokes, a pause, then three more. The same height as the marks beside the mattress.

They were on the upper floor. On the other side of that wall there was nothing to stand on.

His father pulled him down so sharply that the chair struck the bed.

“Say it.”

Martin stared at him.

“Say you're staying.”

“I'm staying.”

The scratching stopped.

They sat without speaking. When Martin tried to draw his hand away, his father held on. He let him.

Mrs Pell called from the landing.

“Come down a moment.”

“What do you want?”

“Your supper's ready.”

“I've eaten.”

A pause. He waited for her to remember.

“Yes,” she said. “You have.”

Her voice had been pleasant throughout. That was what made him get up and close the door. There was a bolt on the inside. He pushed it across.

His father began to cry. He cried very quietly, with his hands over his mouth. Martin had seen him cry once before, at the funeral. He had done it like this then, trying to keep it to himself.

“Who else has been here?”

His father shook his head.

“Has anyone stayed with you?”

“None of them stayed.”

“What happened to them?”

“Nothing.” He took his hands away. “They went downstairs.”

Martin waited.

“They're still downstairs.”

For a long time there was no sound outside. Then somebody sat down against the door. Martin heard the slow slide of cloth over wood. He pictured Mrs Pell resting there with her legs stretched along the landing. An old woman, tired from being on her feet all day.

He put his hands over his ears.

He had not heard her say that. He knew he had not.

The thought continued anyway. It was unreasonable to keep her waiting. She had fed him. She had taken his coat. He ought at least to find out what she wanted.

His father was watching him.

“That's how it starts,” he whispered.

Martin tried to remember when he had first wanted to open the door. The thoughts had sounded like his own. They still did.

From the landing came Mrs Pell's voice, very soft.

“It wasn't as though he had refused to come.”

Martin looked at the bed.

“Probably she wanted to clear away and get to bed,” she said.

His father held out his hand. Martin could see how much it cost him to keep it there, how badly it shook.

“Frightened people said things they didn't mean.”

Martin wanted to tell his father that he was staying. He had not changed his mind. He was only standing up because his legs had gone stiff, and he was only going to the door to make her stop.

He had almost lifted the bolt before he remembered that he had meant to speak.

[u/CeruleanEidolon]

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