I glanced towards the fireplace. It was very late at this point – nearly two o’clock in the morning – and it was all too easy to imagine something spooky and unpleasant going on within these old walls, however much modernisation had taken place over the years.
‘And it carries on in much the same vein,’ Matt said, turning the page over and glancing at the next one. ‘Ghosties, ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night … sorry, are you getting spooked?’
‘No,’ I laughed, ‘although the lady who lives here probably would be,’ I added thoughtfully. But Matt was thumbing through the rest of the papers, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Look at this!’ He held up the large and very tattered page he’d just unfolded. It was the front page of a newspaper. ‘It’s the Crickleford and District Gazette – I’ve heard it was the Chronicle’s rival paper here, till it went out of business, oh, probably about thirty years ago. And look at this headline: CRICKLEFORD HOUSE VISITED BY GHOSTS.’
‘Oh my God. It was actually in the paper?’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes.’ He was scanning the article quickly, beginning to look excited. ‘Evidence has recently been uncovered of frequent supernatural activities taking place in Castle Hill House, Castle Hill Road, Crickleford. Residents both past and present have reported seeing …’ He looked up at me, his eyes shining now. ‘It repeats much of what’s in the typewritten document. Emma, whoever wrote this, had it published on the front page of the local newspaper!’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘Well, it was quite a story, I suppose.’
‘And it still is,’ he said, very pointedly. He got to his feet, carefully folding the papers again. ‘And enough years have passed since this was published – it’s time for it to be resurrected!’
I dropped the gold bracelet I’d been holding, back into the box, and shook my head at him.
‘No, Matt. You can’t.’
‘Why the hell not?’ he shot back. ‘Who’s it going to hurt?’
‘The people who live here, for a start! If they don’t know about it, and I can’t believe they do, it’s going to be enough of a shock, when they come back from their holiday, to find out that all this has been under their floorboards, without it being shouted at them from the Chronicle! It’s their home, Matt. You can’t write about it without their permission.’
‘I’ll get their permission, then. I’ll wait till they come home, fair enough, but they’re bound to find it really interesting themselves—’
‘I’m not so sure about that. Billie seems like a very anxious person. She’ll probably be terrified. And they have two young children. It might upset her so much, she’ll want to move house. I’m not convinced we should even be telling her about it.’
‘What? We have to tell them, Emma! It was under their floorboards!’
‘Obviously they need to know about the money, and the jewellery, but all this ghost stuff …’ I hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Tell the husband, then, if you think the wife’s going to have an attack of the vapours!’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m really starting to think you don’t want me to write any big story for the paper, even if it’s not about you.’
I didn’t respond. We agreed to put the papers back in the box, and put the box in the safe until the family came home, and he went back to nailing down the floorboards.
‘I’m going to talk to Billie’s husband about it first,’ I told Lauren now, as I spread marmalade on my second slice of toast. ‘In case he wants to keep it quiet from Billie and the kids.’
‘Yes, that makes sense. Wow. The things that go on in your own town that you don’t even know about!’ she said. ‘But I’m glad the little hamster was safe.’
‘Yes. That’s the main thing.’ I smiled. ‘He’s had the adventure of his life, though. I don’t think it bothered him one bit – he really didn’t want to be recaptured, the cheeky little thing. Matt thought it was hilarious.’
I hadn’t thanked Matt properly, yet, for helping me. I felt bad now about the way we’d parted. We’d both been tired, and I knew he was cross and frustrated with me, but I wasn’t in the mood for an argument. Now, though, I was worried that we’d go back to not speaking to each other again, such a short time after things had felt better between us. I decided I’d get dressed and walk into town in the hope that Matt might be working a Saturday again in the Chronicle office.
The weather had suddenly turned hot: high summer had come to Crickleford and, with it, an influx of tourists. Grockles, I found myself thinking, and chuckled. I was starting to think like a local! There were groups of hikers in the Town Square, rucksacks on their backs, hiking poles clutched in their hands, taking a rest on the benches in the Square while they spread out maps and consulted their handheld sat-navs. Family groups strolled in the sunshine, looking in the shop windows and exclaiming about cute artefacts that were, of course, displayed precisely to attract them, their prices bearing no relation to their value except to the holidaymaker who wanted a ‘Souvenir of Dartmoor’. I headed straight for the Chronicle office, but to my disappointment the only person there, a girl who was slumped at her desk, reading a magazine and looking bored, told me Matt wasn’t working that day, and that they only had a skeleton staff on Saturdays. I presumed she was the skeleton that week.
At a loss now, I decided to go home and see if Lauren and Jon would like me to take Holly to the park. I had nothing to do until it was time for JoJo the hamster to wake up that evening. But as I passed Ye Olde Tea Shoppe, I glanced in the window and Annie waved to me, so I popped in for a quick coffee and chat. The place was heaving, and Annie was red in the face, yelling out orders to a guy who was helping her, and then yelling across the room to customers when their drinks and snacks were ready.
‘You’re a bit busy today!’ I shouted above the noise of the customers’ chatter, and she gave me a look, her eyebrows raised.
‘Fair makes the gravy run,’ she muttered.
‘Sweat,’ her helper translated for me with a grin. ‘She’s working up a sweat is what she means. My mum can’t speak normal English, can you, Ma?’
Annie laughed and pretended to swipe him across the top of the head with a menu, telling him not to be so forthy.
‘Cheeky,’ he explained with another grin at me. ‘I’m Kieran, by the way. I don’t think we’ve met before. I help Mum out, in here, when I’m home from uni.’
‘Emma,’ I said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ I smiled at him, thinking he looked a bit older than the usual university student – but already he was explaining:
‘I worked in here full time when I first left school. Then I realised my mistake.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Well, I had no ambition back then. You know how it is, when you’re a teenager, you just want to leave school, and earn enough money to have some fun with your mates. Then you grow up! I realised if I was going to make anything of my life I needed to go to uni and get a degree. I’m a mature student at Bristol. Doing engineering.’
I nodded, suddenly feeling sad. If I hadn’t gone to the States with Shane, would I eventually have ‘grown up’ and done something sensible about my own life? Got an education, instead of being a dimwit? Probably not. I didn’t have it in me.
‘You OK?’ Kieran asked, looking concerned.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I’m holding up the queue. I’d like a cappuccino, please.’
‘She’ll die of thirst afore you serve her, poor maid,’ Annie scolded him. ‘Chattering on about your bliddy university. She don’t want to hear ’bout all that.’
‘No, it’s fine. I was interested, actually,’ I said. ‘But I’ll let you get on.’
I smiled my thanks at Kieran and took a seat in the corner, where I listened with half an ear to the gossip going on at the next table about somebody’s husband and someone else’s girlfriend. After I’d drained the last of my cappuccino, I was getting up to leave when Kieran suddenly appeared at my
table, ostensibly collecting crockery.
‘Did you mean that, about being interested, or were you just being polite?’ he asked quietly. ‘Only you looked kind of upset when I started talking about being a student.’
‘Oh, no, it’s nothing,’ I said, feeling embarrassed. Then I sighed. ‘I suppose I just envy people like you – people who are clever enough to go to college and get a proper career.’
‘Well, it’s never too late, Emma,’ he said, looking at me with his head on one side. ‘I know it’s a big financial burden these days, but it pays off in the end. There’s nothing stopping you doing what I’ve done—’
‘Yes, there is,’ I said, shaking my head and taking a step towards the door. I looked back at him. He seemed a nice guy, with an open, friendly face and intelligent grey-green eyes. A mature student, studying for an engineering degree. How could he possibly understand how it felt to be too stupid to pass even the most basic school exams? ‘I didn’t even get any GCSEs,’ I said quickly, looking away from him.
As I pushed my way through the group of hikers now coming down ye olde steppes into the teashop, I thought I heard him call after me ‘Nor did I!’ – but, of course, I must have heard wrong. Or he was trying to be kind. Or patronising me. Whatever, I decided to steer clear of him in future. I didn’t need comparisons with university students to make me feel any worse about myself. I had my own business now, I reminded myself crossly as I walked home, the sun burning the back of my neck. I was an entrepreneur. But still, the meeting had unsettled me and I wanted to just get home and take little Holly to the park. Spending time with her always cheered me up.
‘Oh, Emma, I’m glad you’re home,’ Lauren said as soon as I’d closed the front door behind me. ‘A letter came for you in the post this morning.’
‘For me?’ It was no wonder she’d sounded surprised. I’d had no mail whatsoever since I’d come to live here, and hadn’t expected to get any.
‘Yes, here it is!’ She came out of the kitchen, waving an envelope at me.
I took it from her cautiously, as if I expected it to blow up in my face. I recognised the writing on the envelope straight away – it was Mum’s. But when I ripped it open, there just was another envelope inside, a blue airmail one this time with an American stamp on it. My heart began to race and my hands were clammy as I carried it upstairs to open in private. There was one sheet of flimsy paper inside this second envelope, covered with the same handwriting that was on the airmail envelope. It was written in a tiny, cramped script that blurred before my eyes. The signature was completely illegible. But I wasn’t even going to try to read it yet – because the important thing was what had been folded inside the letter. It was a photo of Albert, my beloved cat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I stared at the photo of Albert until my eyes ached. I even stroked him, in the picture, ran my finger over his head and his back, and tickled his tummy just the way he used to like. It was a while before I could think about anything other than the fact that he was here in front of me, even if only in a photograph. But eventually I started to look at the picture more closely. I didn’t recognise anything about the background. He was lying on a stripy cushion, on a gold-coloured sofa. Behind him was a wall decorated in a floral wallpaper, with a glimpse of some stripy curtains that clashed with the wallpaper, and in front of the sofa was a brown floral carpet. There weren’t any other clues as to whose home it was, but in a funny way I was pleased about the cushion. Whoever was looking after him was obviously happy for him to make himself comfy on the sofa. From what I could see, he seemed to be in good health. He looked calm and contented. That was very reassuring. I picked up the letter again and stared at the spidery writing, screwing up my eyes, trying to make out what it said.
‘Dear Candice’, it began. I grabbed the envelope again. Sure enough, it was addressed to ‘Ms C. Nightingale’, and I could just about make out enough of the address to know it had been sent care of my parents’ home. Of course, everyone I’d ever met in the States knew me as Candice. But … who’d sent it? Who, apart from Shane, could possibly have known my parents’ address? And he certainly wouldn’t be writing to me! Come to that, who among my acquaintances in America, would send a photo like this, in an airmail envelope, folded inside a sheet of tiny, cramped writing? Everyone I knew shared photos on WhatsApp or Instagram. Why wouldn’t this person at least have sent it attached to an email? It made no sense to go to all the trouble of an airmail letter, not these days. It was … surely … something only an elderly person would do.
I sat up straight, staring at the illegible script again. That was it, of course – the old-fashioned decor in the room, the carpet, the curtains – Albert had been adopted by someone of my grandparents’ age! I sighed. Despite the frustration of not knowing who they were, and the worry of how they’d got hold of my Loughton address, I did feel better now I’d figured this out. Surely a nice old lady or gentleman would love my darling Albert and look after him well, give him lots of affection and cuddles. An indoor cat was the perfect pet for someone of that age, after all. I tucked the photo under my pillow, together with the letter, and went back downstairs.
‘Everything OK?’ Lauren asked me. ‘You looked a bit upset about that letter.’
‘Oh, no, it’s fine – it was just from my mum,’ I said. ‘She’s sent me some photos of my sister’s kids,’ I lied smoothly. It was worrying how easily the lies came to me these days.
Lauren smiled. ‘That’s nice.’ She looked at me slightly questioningly and I realised the normal thing would have been to show off the photos.
‘Oh, they’re not very good photos,’ I said, turning away. ‘In fact the children both had the chickenpox, that’s why she was showing them to me. They wouldn’t want the pictures shown around. Embarrassing for them – great big spots on their faces. Poor things, eh!’
Lauren nodded. She looked a bit surprised but seemed to accept it. ‘Well, it’s nice that your mum’s been in touch, anyway,’ she said.
I realised she probably thought it was odd that Mum and Dad never called, never wrote to me, hardly ever emailed or texted me. She couldn’t be expected to know what it was like to be the black sheep of the family, the daughter everybody was glad to see the back of, the one who’d never given them anything but grief.
‘Yes,’ I said, trying to ignore the sudden pain in my heart, the certainty that most mothers, in forwarding on an airmail letter to their daughter, would surely at least put in a covering note. Just a few lines. Even just ‘From Mum’ and a couple of kisses would have been nice. ‘She said how much she misses me, of course,’ I lied. ‘I know she’s desperate to have me back. But I prefer it here. I love being here in Crickleford.’
Lauren smiled again and said she was glad I was happy there. But I noticed her giving me the occasional odd little glance over the course of the next couple of days, and once again I wished I could confide in her.
My second week of looking after JoJo the cheeky hamster passed uneventfully, except that I’d had to find an old box to put him in while I cleaned out his cage now that the ball was no good – which rather cut down on his adventures and resulted in lots of squeaks of frustration. He seemed happy to see me every evening, though, but because it was always dark by the time I left, I’d often find myself thinking about the story of hauntings in the house. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and the place didn’t really spook me, as long as I had the lights on. But I did wonder what Billie’s husband would say when I told him, and whether he’d want to risk telling his wife.
Because I had the daytimes free, I spent quite a bit of time helping Lauren in the garden, ignoring her protests that she didn’t expect me to be doing it. I’d never done any gardening before in my life, but the weather was fine and warm and I was enjoying being outside in the fresh air. Under her direction I was learning which were weeds and which were plants, and how to cut the lawn and sprinkle the cuttings on the flowerbeds to mulch down into the soil. One afternoon when I was
trimming the edges of the lawn at the same time as trying to maintain a game of hide and seek with Holly, Lauren came out saying I had a visitor. It was Matt, and Holly seemed almost as excited to see him as I was.
‘I’m sorry I sulked, about that ghost story,’ he said, as soon as Holly had finally run off to play on her swing at the end of the garden. ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about it since that night – I’ve been really busy covering loads of summer events. But you were absolutely right, of course. If you think the story might upset the lady, you must talk to the husband first and see what he says. When do they come home?’
‘Saturday evening. I’d better go round and see them straight away, otherwise they’ll beat me to it – open the safe and find all the stuff there.’
‘Maybe you should bring it all home with you on Friday night, just in case.’
‘Yes, that makes sense.’ I smiled at him. ‘I’m glad you’re not annoyed with me. I do want you to have your chance of a story, but—’
‘I wasn’t annoyed with you,’ he interrupted me. ‘Just frustrated, I suppose. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. How about I make it up to you by taking you for that drive across Dartmoor I promised you? I’m free on Saturday.’
‘Yes, I’d love that,’ I agreed. I was so pleased about being friends with him again that I managed to block out my worries about him being a journalist – for now, anyway. ‘Thanks, I’ll look forward to it.’
The Pets at Primrose Cottage Page 18