The Children's Home

A Novel

Charles Lambert

• Publisher: Scribner
• Year: 2016
• eBook ISBN: 9781501117411
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

A "disquieting" ( The New York Times ) and mesmerizing tale from an award-winning British author about a mysterious group of children who appear to a disfigured recluse and his country doctor—a tale that "[stirs] the imagination in the manner of Roald Dahl or C.S. Lewis" ( Winnepeg Free Press ). In a sprawling estate lives Morgan Fletcher, the disfigured heir to a fortune of mysterious origins. Morgan spends his days in quiet study, avoiding his reflection in mirrors and the lake at the end of his garden. One day, two children, Moira and David, appear. Morgan takes them in, giving them free reign. Then more children begin to show up.Dr. Crane, the town physician and Morgan's lone tether to the outside world, is as taken with the children as Morgan, and begins to spend more time in Morgan's library. But the children behave strangely. They show a prescient understanding of Morgan's past, and their bizarre discoveries in the mansion attics grow increasingly disturbing. Every day the children seem to disappear into the hidden rooms of the estate, and perhaps, into the hidden corners of Morgan's mind."A one-of-a-kind literary horror story" ( Kirkus Reviews, starred review), The Children's Home is "an absorbing and dream-like narrative that recalls both the pastoral gothic of Shirley Jackson and the dystopic vision of John Wyndham" ( Columbus Dispatch ). "Written with charm and restraint, " ( The Missourian ), Lambert's American debut weaves elements of psychological suspense and neo-gothic horror to reveal the grotesque—as well as the glimmers of goodness—buried deep within the soul. "This genre-bending horror story is sure to haunt you in all the best ways" ( Bustle ).

CHAPTER ONE

in which Morgan explains the living daylights and the children begin to arrive

The children began to arrive soon after Engel came to the house. It was Engel who found the first one, an infant girl, in a basket, with a bundle of neatly folded, freshly washed clothes. The basket had been left on the steps leading up from the kitchen into the garden. Whoever had put it there must have known the way the house worked, because days might have passed before any of the other doors were opened; left anywhere else, the child would probably have died. As it was, no more than an hour or two had gone by but already the creature was blue with cold. Engel picked her up and held her, the small soft body pressed to her bosom, the small wrinkled face in the warm crook of her neck, for she didn’t know how long; a living daylight was how she described it to Morgan when she brought the baby up to him in his study. Looking across from his reading with amusement, Morgan explained that the living daylights were always plural and that they were supposed to be the part of the human soul most susceptible to fear. She nodded, fervently, that’s exactly right, it just goes on and on. That’s exactly how it was, she said, with the child’s small heart barely beating and the breath like a short hot knife blade on the skin of Engel’s neck. Engel lifted the baby away from her body and held her out to Morgan, who shook his head. She said they should tell someone perhaps, someone would know what to do with her, but Morgan disagreed. Left to himself he might have been tempted, what use did he have for a child, after all? But he could hear that Engel’s heart wasn’t in it. Just look at you both, he said. What could be better than this? Don’t you know how to deal with her as well as anyone? Let her stay here with us, where she will be clothed and fed, and kept out of this wicked weather. At least for a while. Perhaps, he thought, the child’s presence would encourage Engel not to go.

He held her later, when she’d been given milk and changed into fresh clothes from the bundle she’d arrived with; decent hand-sewn clothes, laundered and ironed, made of white cotton. He stroked the soft hair from the fine blue veins of her forehead, the first child he’d ever taken in his arms, and examined his feelings to see if they were altered in any way. He wanted to see if this child would change him; more than anything he wanted that. But what he felt seemed familiar to him; he had felt it before with small animals, kittens, a hamster he’d once been given, the little stagger of a newborn lamb; even with plants, those plants that flowered and had scent, that had touched his heart for a moment before they died. It will take time, he said to himself, only slightly disappointed. Miracles will take time. At least, in the meantime, the child might begin to love him. They called her Moira, which Morgan told Engel meant fate. At which information, Engel sniffed.

Engel watched the two of them, that morning, standing in the center of the kitchen with a bowl of cream in her hand, which she was going to beat and pour on bread pudding for lunch. No waste was allowed in Engel’s world; even week-old bread had its uses. The cream, the color of old lace, came from one of the black-and-white cows that Morgan could see from his room at the top of the house, herds of cows grazing beyond the wall that encircled his own land, as far as the city itself, where his sister ran the factory.

•  •  •

Other children arrived soon after that, as though Morgan had earned them by taking the first one in. Some were abandoned, as Moira had been, left on the kitchen step, which was now checked hourly; others, he suspected, were given to Engel at the door, by whom, he didn’t know. These were the children who arrived empty-handed. By the end of the third month of Moira’s presence in the house, there were six or seven, he wasn’t sure exactly, of varying ages. Moira remained the youngest. According to Engel, who seemed to know, she couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old when she was left. The oldest among them was a fair-haired boy who walked into the house one day with a cardboard tag—the kind used for parcels—attached to his wrist, on which the name David had been written in a childish hand. Taken immediately to Morgan, he stood up like a little soldier before his desk, stared straight ahead, and announced, in a solemn yet singsong voice, that he was five years old and had no mother or father and would behave well if he was treated well. The ages of the others ranged between these two, Moira and David, whom Morgan regarded as the most precious, perhaps because they were the most easily distinguished; Moira, the first and youngest, and David, with his tag, the eldest.

Some of them came to the house in other ways. One morning, shortly after breakfast, Morgan was standing by the drawing room window and gazing out into the garden when a square of air above the lawn seemed to ripple as though it were silk and a knife had been drawn across it, and a child appeared on the lawn and began to walk towards the house, perfectly confident, it seemed, that she would be received. As she was. Later that day, when no one was likely to see him, Morgan went into the garden to try to find the place, standing on the lawn and testing the air with his hand for some point where its resistance might be weak, until he felt foolish and gave up. Walking back across the lawn, he saw that he had been watched by David, who was standing at the window directly above the drawing room. He waved, and was pleased to see David wave back. Like David, the new girl had a cardboard tag attached to her wrist, which told them her name was Melissa. She looked around the main hall of the house with a contented expression, smiling at David when he came to take her hand and show her the house, although she smiled at Moira in much the same way, and at the other children too; she smiled at everyone as though she had known and loved them all her life. When she saw Morgan for the first time, as he hurried through from the drawing room to greet her, calling to Engel as he did so, she ran across and hugged his knees.

Each day, Morgan would watch them eat, while Engel doled out food into their bowls. David and the second eldest, a girl with sad blue eyes and a missing milk tooth at the front of her mouth, whose name—because Engel had insisted—was Daisy, sat near the fireplace at a small wooden table Morgan had never seen before, which must have been acquired by Engel in the town and been delivered when he was in another part of the house, or still asleep one morning. So much went on in the house of which he was unaware. The running of the place, he often thought, was blessedly arranged behind his back. The others were seated in a semicircle of high chairs, also new. Melissa and David and Jack and Moira and Daisy and Christopher and Ruth, each one as like and unlike the others as children always are. Morgan was proud to see his kitchen busy with these small, contentedly eating creatures, with Engel filling their bowls and spooning the food into the younger ones’ mouths.

One day, in an effort to belong more intimately, Morgan dipped his finger into a bowl and licked off the pap, a sort of puree, as far as he could tell, of meat and cabbage. He was surprised to find it so good. I should like some of this, he said to Engel, who growled at him and shook her head. This is no food for you, she said. You’re a big enough baby as it is. Later that day, standing in his bedroom, he couldn’t explain to himself how deeply the manner of this refusal had touched him. He found himself weeping for the first time since the accident. Later still that same day, when he had thought he was alone in his room, he opened his eyes and saw two children, a boy and a girl, standing before him, dressed identically in striped smocks that came almost to their feet and thin white shoes, as soft and defenseless as slippers. They spoke together. Our names are Georgie and Georgina, they said. Hello, Georgie and Georgina, Morgan said, with some difficulty, the soft gs clinging to the surface of his tongue. Hello, Morgan, they said. So they’d already been told his name.

Mealtime with the children became a fixed point in his day. He would steal small tastes of the food that Engel prepared whenever she turned her back, which she may have done on purpose; his finger was constantly wet to the touch, and warm. The children had learned that when Morgan was there they should be quiet and eat their food, although no child was ever punished, certainly not in front of him. At times he wondered if Engel chastised them when he was somewhere else. He didn’t think so. Did it occur to him that a child that never needed to be chastised was hardly a child at all, but a sort of living doll, or automaton? Of course it did. He knew there was a mystery about these children, and not only in the nature of their arrival, but he pushed the thought aside. In any case, the notion that Engel might do more than raise her voice, might use some sort of violence against them, could not be conceived.

The room in which Morgan passed the better part of his days was lined with darkly polished wooden shelves, and had no natural light. Each shelf was tightly packed with stacks of books of all shapes and sizes, reaching to the high paneled ceiling. The entrance was concealed behind a small hinged bookcase filled with dummy books, one of which—a collection of essays by an eighteenth-century cleric—acted as a hidden clasp. Even the two long windows that had once overlooked the lawns had been sealed to make more room for shelves, thought Morgan, absurd as this was in a house with dozens of empty rooms that might have held any number of books. What he didn’t say—perhaps because no one had ever asked him—was that in rooms without access to natural light, there could be no day or night. In this room, known as the book room to distinguish it from the house’s true library, which was downstairs, time was an uninflected, unending ribbon, an ouroboros. Morgan had arranged for a desk to be placed in the center and, behind it, the swivel chair his father had used when he worked as a lawyer in the city. This was the room in which he read and, sometimes, before the children arrived and for some time after, wrote. The children were only permitted to enter accompanied, although they were always there for him in a way. He would feel their presence whatever he was doing.

CHAPTER TWO

in which Engel chooses a room

Engel had been sent to him by his sister, Rebecca, he was certain of that. She came with several references that made no comment at all about anything she had done, but spoke highly of her character, as though it was her character that was on offer and not her skills. He was certain Engel had come from his sister because she knew so many things about him. She didn’t say, in so many words: I know you like your bed linen to be folded back at an angle. I know you like your eggs to be scrambled with too much butter in a small copper pan and taken off the heat a moment too soon and left to almost set. I know you have nightmares and can only be soothed by a cool cloth on your forehead and no words spoken because words only make it worse. She didn’t say these things; she did them.

The first time he noticed how much she knew about him, he was apprehensive. He would have asked her where she had learned his needs so precisely, but something about her no-nonsense manner dissuaded him. Then, by degrees, he grew used to it, and to her. Before too many weeks had passed, it was natural that she should perform these duties as a sister might. It hurt him a little that his sister should have chosen not to perform them herself, preferring to send a servant, but he could not blame her. Rebecca had her work to do. Besides, his return from the clinic had not been easy. He could not expect to be loved without condition by those who had loved him before, as though nothing had changed. He would take love when it came, he thought, and be grateful. He had learned that in the clinic, where all men’s eyes were turned away.

Then Engel had come, and he had taken her on and done his best to smile. You may choose your room, he had said, and she had nodded. I’ll have one with the sun then, with the sun in the morning, so that I see it when I wake up. My last job, I lived in a cellar like a rat. They thought I didn’t need the light, being a servant, how stupid they were. She shook her body, the kind of slow shake a heavy dog might use to wake itself, and laughed. You let me choose my room, she said, and I swear to you I’ll never leave.

She spent the first day walking around the house. Morgan could hear her feet on the floorboards, as he waited for her to make up her mind. He heard doors open and close, and words he couldn’t catch, as though she were discussing the merits of each room with another person, in a language he felt he recognized but couldn’t place. Now and again, she laughed at something, or remonstrated.

The room she chose in the end was on the same floor as his, and had not been intended for a servant. It was large and square, with wallpaper of white and yellow vertical stripes, white flowers on the yellow, yellow flowers on the white, a room that looked southeast towards the distant hills. Next to it was a bathroom, with a deep white tub on four clawed feet and gilded taps with porcelain lozenges that bore the words chaud and froid in italic script. There was a fireplace in both rooms, and a carpet in the bedroom. When he saw this, Morgan remembered his mother shouting at a girl to be more careful or she would burn the carpet, and the girl crying. He’d sworn then that he would never make a servant cry.

Most of the carpets in the house had been sent back by his grandfather, who had traveled the world before settling in Persia. He had lived there for many years and grown rich and then designed this house, which he never saw, with the help of a French architect he knew there. It was typical of him that he had died on the way home, on the boat, of an infection, despite all his medical pretensions. He had lived in his own country for less than a third of his life and, by his own account, had never been happy until he was finally away, an explorer first, a man of business second. It was fitting that he, who had been obsessed by illness, should have been defeated by something as trivial as an ear infection.

When Engel arrived, Morgan had already spent as many years enclosed in this house as his grandfather had spent in his own country, yet even then he was not sure whether he would call it home. He would call parts of it home perhaps. Yet he was sure that Engel would say from that first day that the room she chose was home to her. When she showed him which one she’d chosen, opening the door in her matter-of-fact way and ushering him in, her few belongings already unpacked and laid out on the bed, he saw at once that the room was full of Engel. There was no other way to say it. Even if the walls had been faded gray and the carpet scorched, the room would be bursting with Engel.

CHAPTER THREE

in which medical help is required and Morgan is shocked by an image in water

It was Engel who called for the doctor the first time, when Daisy began to cough. Despite his anxiety, Morgan was reluctant, knowing how little doctors could do, but Engel insisted. You can’t just have children and then not care for them, you must see that, she said. It’s all very well for you to think that doctors are no use, yet where would you be without them? I would be dead, he said, and let her think about that for a moment. Then, because he could see that she was close to shouting with frustration but also perhaps because his words had been cruel, he relented.

You must find me a doctor who is discreet, he specified. A doctor who can keep his mouth shut, because what we have done here will not be tolerated. There will be someone out there who will make us pay. Engel nodded, then wiped her hands on her apron. Just let them try to take our children away from us, she said, her mouth set. They’ll see what happens if they do. How odd, he thought, that she should presume so much, the unexpectedness of this joint parentage taking his breath away for a moment; yet he was, perhaps more than anything else, flattered. Our children, he thought. Sometimes he wanted to touch her, just brush the perfect skin of her forearm with his hand, but he never did. Boundaries protected them both. Besides, he couldn’t bear the thought that she might feel, at his touch, disgust rise in her craw and be obliged to hide it from him. It was always a wonder to him when the babies reached up and stroked his face with their tiny feeling hands, a wonder they seemed to share. He watched, his breath caught in his throat, as their pale eyes opened wide, their fingertips with nails no bigger than a grain of rice exploring the ragged seams and creases of his cheek and chin and lip, although he himself felt nothing; there was no pain, at least. Not anymore. He let them hold his own finger in their hands and take it to their mouths. He let them chuckle and dribble and suck. He would let no one deprive him of this.

Engel did what was required with skill and discretion. Morgan never troubled to ask her how or where she had found Doctor Crane. There seemed no point. He knew that it would be all right the instant he saw the Doctor take Daisy in his arms and lift her until their noses were almost touching, and whisper something that made Daisy laugh and turn her head away. Doctor Crane was tall and thin, big-boned, with large white teeth and fairish hair brushed back, though it would not stay back. He was too young to be a doctor, thought Morgan, though this could not have been the case; he was perhaps Morgan’s age. But he looked and behaved like someone too young to be serious all the time, as doctors had to be. His trousers were short on him, as though he hadn’t finished growing. His wrists stuck out bare and bony from the sleeves of his ill-fitting jacket. He had a large impetuous voice, large and urgent though incapable of harshness, that seemed to have just broken. He blushed when Engel said he was a figure of a man.

Morgan saw the Doctor but the Doctor didn’t see Morgan. Engel had taken the Doctor into the green drawing room off the hall, a small room with symmetrical alcoves designed for statues, two sofas covered in olive-green silk, and a fireplace made of dark pink basalt brought from Egypt. Morgan was concealed in one of the alcoves by a curtain of heavy brocade, into which he had cut a spyhole. He had a view of the center of the room, between the pair of sofas. Engel made sure Daisy was examined where he could see them, guiding the Doctor to a preestablished point on the carpet, also from Egypt. He watched as the Doctor listened through his stethoscope to Daisy’s chest and back and examined her throat, holding her tongue down with what appeared to be (and was, as Engel confirmed later) a silver apostle’s spoon. He heard, with relief, the words of the Doctor as he turned to Engel and said, It’s nothing of importance, nothing to worry about, a touch of cold, only natural in this frigid weather, and prescribed a cough tincture and a few days’ rest. That was when Engel offered him coffee and he rubbed his hands together like a boy, and Morgan knew they’d be safe with him. They left the room and Morgan waited for a moment before coming out from behind the curtain and smiling at Daisy in his own way. She giggled and raised her arms to be lifted. There are children who are only happy when their faces are buried in the neck of adults, Morgan had learned. Daisy was one of these. She gave a little sigh, like a hiccup. He put one arm beneath her bottom and held her to him as he crept across the hall, an intruder in his own home, and let himself into the scullery. From there, through a small glass vent in the wall, he could see into the kitchen. The house lent itself so completely to his need for secrecy it seemed as though his grandfather had foreseen it all, his grandson’s disfigurement and withdrawal, his shame for what he was and could not change.

They were sitting together, Engel and Doctor Crane, at the table. They each had a mug of steaming coffee, freshly made, and Engel had cut some slices of fruit cake and put them on the table. She was asking him if he was married. The Doctor’s mouth was full of cake, but he shook his head, and she laughed and said he was a proper catch for a woman, he should look out.

David walked into the kitchen and halted; he hadn’t expected a visitor. He was old enough to know that visitors were not encouraged at the house; perhaps he was old enough to know why. Sometimes, David would look at Morgan with other, older, eyes and Morgan would think it was only a matter of time before he turned away and looked no more.

Doctor Crane stood up and held out his hand. Morgan was proud to see David take the man’s hand and introduce himself. He said that he was David and that he had no mother or father and that it was of no importance because Engel looked after him like a mother. And Daisy is your sister, the Doctor said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. Morgan still held Daisy in his arms; she wriggled to be put down and he was afraid they would be discovered. But she grew calm again when David said, in his formal way, Yes, Daisy is my sister. I have other sisters and brothers. Perhaps you would like to meet them?

When they left the kitchen, Morgan couldn’t follow them any further without being seen. He put Daisy down and together they were walking through the scullery when he heard what sounded like Engel and David approaching. In a pani...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven
• Chapter Twelve
• Chapter Thirteen
• Chapter Fourteen
• Chapter Fifteen
• Chapter Sixteen
• Chapter Seventeen
• Chapter Eighteen
• Chapter Nineteen
• Chapter Twenty
• Chapter Twenty-One
• Chapter Twenty-Two
• Chapter Twenty-Three
• Chapter Twenty-Four
• Chapter Twenty-Five
• Chapter Twenty-Six
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
• Chapter Thirty
• Chapter Thirty-One
• Chapter Thirty-Two
• Chapter Thirty-Three
• Acknowledgments
• Reading Group Guide
• About Charles Lambert
• Copyright