A Nest of Nightmares

The pest control man agreed to come out that very day. I suspect he pegged me as an hysterical woman, but at least he was willing to drive out to the house with his full arsenal of traps and poisons and see what might live in the attic.

He was a big, beefy, red-faced, no-nonsense sort of man, and I wondered how his composure would stand up to the sight of that nest in the attic. He stared, stolid and faintly contemptuous, and I struggled to describe what I had seen.

‘What sort of thing would build such a nest? And in an attic? What could be living up there?’ I asked him.

He only shrugged. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say. I’ll have a look.’

I had roused Sylvia before his arrival. Now she stood by and said nothing as this solid, sensible man climbed into the attic. My nerves were singing; I couldn’t bear to be so close to her. Abruptly I turned and went away downstairs where I could sit and shake without having to explain myself. I had wadded up Sylvia’s nightgown and thrown it on the floor while she still slept. I had not been able to confront her with it, and she had not mentioned it to me.

When the man came down out of the attic his manner was unchanged and he gave his ponderous, practical report.

‘You do have mice, and spiders. An old house like this, with the fields so close, it stands to reason. You might want to get a cat. Good company they are, too, cats. I saw no sign of rats, so you can be easy on that. You want to get that roof fixed, of course, and clear up all that mess. I can put down poison and traps . . .’

‘I don’t care about mice,’ I said sharply. ‘What made that nest, that’s what I want to know. You’re not telling me it was built by mice?’

‘Stands to reason they’d nest there,’ he said.

‘I’m sure it does. But what built that huge nest in the first place?’

He looked a shade uncertain. ‘Maybe you’d like to come up and point it out to me. Maybe I don’t know which nest you mean. Maybe I missed it.’

‘You can’t possibly have missed it! It’s huge – I’ve never seen anything like it. Five feet tall, at least, and made of twigs and straw and mud and bits of old newspaper and – ’

‘You mean that heap of rubbish? Shocking the way it’s piled up, isn’t it? It’s because of that you’ve got the spiders and the wood-lice and everything.’

‘It’s not just a rubbish heap,’ I said patiently. ‘It’s a nest. The nest. If you’d looked at it properly you would have seen that it didn’t just grow, it was put together as a shelter, with an entranceway and everything. If you were doing your job, you should have seen that. You just left it?’

He gave me a blank, steady look. ‘It’s not my job to clean up other people’s rubbish. Not very pleasant sorting through it to see what might live there, but I poked my stick in and turned it over and stirred it around. That’s how I know about the mice and all. It’s no wonder you’ve got them, a mess like that. You need to get it cleaned up. Hire someone, if you don’t fancy tackling it yourself. Once you’ve got that lot cleared away and the roof fixed you won’t have any trouble.’

I recognised the sort of man he was. If he couldn’t understand something, then for him it did not exist. There was probably no way I could get him to see what I had seen. Well, it didn’t matter, and I agreed with his advice. ‘Could you recommend someone to clear it away for me?’

‘I do have a nephew who does the odd job,’ he said. ‘Since you ask.’

The nephew came out that same afternoon to do his work, as did a team of roof menders for a preliminary survey. Getting the roof mended took a full week and more. It could be done no faster, no matter how I stressed the need, no matter what bonuses I promised. Winter days were short. They told me they would do the best they could.

During this period, when the house was always full of workmen, Sylvia and I barely communicated. She went out, most days, and did not tell me where she went. But these were not like her previous disappearances, and so they did not worry me. I saw her go out through the front door every time, and saw her walk down the road and turn towards the village. She did not return until after dark, when the house was empty and still again. I saw those days as a precarious interval: once I had made the house safe there would be time to talk, opportunity to mend the rift that had come between us.

Finally it was done. The roof was fixed and the house was whole again. Sylvia and I sat in the warm front room that evening, each in an armchair with a book. I couldn’t concentrate on mine; I looked around, admiring the harmony of the room, the warm conjunction of colours and furnishings, all so carefully chosen.

Sylvia said, ‘You’re happy here.’

I smiled. ‘Of course. Aren’t you?’

She didn’t answer and I wished I hadn’t asked. ‘You will be,’ I said. ‘Give it time.’ I hesitated, and then added, very low, ‘I did it for you.’