Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  *

  That drizzle became rain as we located a pensionable guy decked out in a BR uniform, complete with cap, ensconced in a darkened room boiling up a kettle whose shrill whistle drowned my first question. His badge read ARTHUR STOCK. STATION MASTER.

  “Not sure,” he said, after my second attempt. “Least no female of that description, unless I were otherwise occupied. ‘Sides, there’s only the Norwich to Kings Cross which gets here at 09.06 and to my knowledge, no-one got on or off it.”

  I turned to Stephen who seemed on another planet. “What car does Catherine’s brother drive?”

  “Why?”

  “Just a thought.”

  “I’m beginning to worry about her,” he said to the station master’s obvious and increasing puzzlement. “You’re supposed to be reassuring me. “He frowned. “It’s a beige Peugeot. Furry seats. Not new by any means. OK?”

  The official was pouring boiling water on to a tea bag dangling in his mug.

  “Would you have noticed a car like that?” I asked, tempted to relieve him of it. “Either parked or coming in and out? Yesterday or today?”

  The man stirred his brew thoughtfully. Then looked up.

  “Might have.”

  “Please try and be more specific.”

  “Can’t. Sorry.”

  To Stephen I said, “What did his wife used to drive?”

  “A red Fiesta. Not new either. Still got it, I believe.”

  The official’s teaspoon stopped in mid-air.

  “Come to think of it,” he then reached for his opened milk carton, tipped in a copious amount and licked its triangular lip. “There were one like that yesterday morning. Didn’t stop long, mind. Not sure of the make, but red stands out, don’t it? ‘Specially in a gloomy dump like this.”

  “Anything else?” I was aware of Stephen checking his watch. “Who was driving it? Did you notice?”

  A shake of that grizzled head. A noisy slurp of tea. I passed him my card; trotted out my usual has-been mantra.

  “Ex-cop, eh?” He looked me up and down. “How come you buggers end up with more than treble my bloody pension?”

  *

  Plot thickens,” I said to Stephen, aware of creeping urbanisation replacing yet more tedious views of farmland. “Tell me more about the set-up at Snodbury. You never know what might prove useful.”

  By the time the university campus outside Wymondham came impressively into view, I had a much clearer picture of a hugely ambitious clergyman who’d had an older, but not unattractive wife. Vivienne it seemed, had had spent more time out of the house than in it, until a heart attack felled her on Christmas Eve last year, while her husband had been conducting St. Mary the Virgin’s annual carol service. Her widowed mother was apparently still alive and living in Edinburgh, although Stephen had only met her at their wedding.

  More unusual was the young, foreign help arrived shortly before this tragedy. The tiniest warning pinged in my brain, then I dismissed it, for we’d reached the unmanned red and white barrier to the main car park. The only colour on that drab, drizzly morning.

  “Don’t know anything about him at all,” Stephen admitted before adding his name and not inconsiderable status into the intercom. The barrier squealed as it rose into the air.

  “Him?”

  “So, I believe.”

  He was distracted again, manoeuvring the Volvo into his named parking slot between a blue Boxster and a C type Merc. Both dwarfed by a new, bronze-coloured 4X4 complete with a bull bar that wouldn’t have looked out of place on military manoeuvres.

  No, I wasn’t jealous, I tried convincing myself

  “Where’s he from?”

  A shrug that to me, seemed forced.

  “You have to realise I get to hear very little about my brother-in-law. Catherine’s much more likely to be in the picture. After all, they are fellow-Christians.”

  I detected more than disdain at this, plus the fact that her absence was diverting attention away from the purpose of my visit. To help unearth the mystery surrounding the caring Doctor Vincent Lovell. Missing for sixty-eight years. And who exactly had he been trying to help.

  “While you’re at your meeting,” I began, “may I check out what’s in your safe? You can trust me with the code, and I’ll be very careful. Use your white gloves etcetera…”

  He hesitated.

  “No, I’m sorry, Johnny. Just in case. It’s taken me years to…”

  “It’s OK,” I said, aware of him close to snapping.

  “I’ve some interesting reference books on post WW1 Norfolk to give a broader picture and on the gradual modernisation of farming…”

  “Great.”

  He missed my irony.

  “Make sure you lock the office door and keep its inner blind pulled down. I’ll leave you my door key. Oh, and see you use the loo beforehand. It’s a bit of a trek. I’ll show you.”

  “No ball and chain then?”

  He didn’t see the joke either.

  We were now at a glassed-in reception area, where a friendly-looking woman wearing a double string of bright orange beads, waved us through.

  Stephen reached his door. Checked left and right while turning his key. I knew nerves when I saw them.

  “Look, I’m sorry about this safe business. It’s tricky.” He tapped his briefcase containing the green folder. “One’s research materials are always sensitive, at least until the paper’s published. Risk of leaks, of…”

  “Theft?”

  A nod.

  “Who by? Me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Catherine?”

  He didn’t like that at all. “Let’s just leave it, eh?”

  He seemed immediately older. Wrung out. But why did so much seem to be at stake? What couldn’t be seen in his safe? And why had his wife who’d behaved so oddly yesterday morning, been absent for twenty-four hours without so much as a peep?

  15. STANLEY.

  Friday 23rd July 1920. 6.15 p.m.

  “Where is he? “Buggered off, or what?” Pa stood over me bed, dripping sweat. His almost bald head shining like a new-laid egg in the evening sunlight coming through me window. “And where’s the big spade? My spade?”

  “Who are ye talking about?” I murmured, keeping me eyes half closed.

  “Manelos. Never come in for breakfast nor lunch.” Pa pointed a filty finger at me. Pig shit round his nails, I could tell. “You wanted to to use him for our pit. Now look.”

  “’He’ll be back once his belly starts hurting with hunger,” I said, making sure me own hands covered those stubborn bloodstains on me vest. Hiding both grazed elbows in the folds of the undersheet. “Parasites like him always will.”

  Pa grunted and looked out of the open window from where our track to the Longstanton road and way out to the east could be seen.

  “No sign of him out there, and,” he glanced back at me with scorn not pity,

  “it’s ‘cos of ye, I’ve ‘ad to see to the pigs on me own. They’re burnin’ again. Worth half what they should be. Damned feckin’ sun. Damned everythin’…”

  I let him carry on, thinking how, when I was able, I’d start digging the bloody pit mesen and get paid proper. After all, who else could do it now? I were all he’d got.

  “Me and yer Ma been thinking, son,” he stood closer to the window, casting his old eyes from left to right. “Any day now, we’ll be taking someone else on. Got no choice, seeing as how ye are. This farm’s been in the family since the Repeal of the Corn Laws, and, God willing it’ll stay that way.” He came over to prod me left leg till I flinched in pain. “Doctor Lovell will be over in half an hour. If yer not on yer feet by Monday, fit and able, then we start hirin.’”

  His words were like me skimming stones hitting the River Howse. I knew when Pa’s mind were made up, that were it. Stubborn as a deep-dug post. Ma the same, but with a nail still stickin’ out. In other words, her tongue.

  “Just think,” I said, What yer
planning on’s agin the law. “I’m yer son. No-one else.”

  He smiled no teeth.

  “Let’s just see what the doctor’s got to say.”

  *

  I heard his fecking dog first. Yap, yap-yap, comin’ from outside. Another waste of skin that needed its head taken off its shoulders. A Manchester Terrier, so he’d said the last time when Ma had fainted from gas come up from the well. Whatever breed it were, it gave me a headache.

  Doctor Lovell were on the stairs, and I thought if he were going to inspect me, I’d better lose me vest double quick. Easier said than done. As the door opened, I stuffed it under me bed.

  *

  Just him and me alone, with the look of a preacher on his face. Not that I’d seen many of them, just the Reverend Henry Beecham who conducted me aunt’s funeral at Longstanton three years ago. A mean old bat, she was, in the Bulling tradition, who I hoped was spinning in Hell in a sea of soverereigns, unable to touch not a one.

  “Well, then, Stanley,” began the quack, unclicking his big, black bag. “How are we today? Any better?” He pressed the steel end of an even blacker rubber snake against me bare chest

  “Raring to go.”

  “That’s the ticket. Breathe in, as deeply as you can.”

  I did, and at the same time let out a pop of wind.

  “Didn’t mean for that to ‘appen,” I said.

  His reply was to return the snake to the bag and begin a study of me feet. White fingers bending me toes back and fore. “How come these are so discoloured? What have you been up to?

  Panic.

  I’d not thought about me feet.

  “Nothing. Not washed for a while. Too busy.”

  “Do you work barefoot, then?” He pulled out a lump of soil from between me big toe and the next one and crumbled it. “Damp,” he added, frowing. I ignored him.

  “Blame the weather.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t notice this on my last visit. His small eyes through his spectacles then fixed on me knees. Next me elbows. I hoped he wouldn’t also notice how me pulse were bobbing in me neck.

  “I just want to get up and start helping Ma and Pa agin. So when will that be? That’s why yer ‘ere, innit?

  Silence as he lifted each of me legs in turn. I had to shove a fist into me gob to stop mesen from screaming when he moved the left one.

  “Any pain?”

  Idiot.

  “None.”

  “Right. Let’s help you out of bed.”

  His arm felt soft as a girl’s under his jacket, and yet, there I was, feeling more than ever the slave.

  “Steady now, Stanley. One false move and you could be in plaster for weeks.”

  He pushed both legs to the side and pulled me round so I sat upright but all twisted over. “Up you come. Keep holding on to me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Try again.”

  “What are ye? A torturer?”

  “I’m simply trying to make a diagnosis. Yes, there are grazes, but also a couple of pustules have formed on your left shin. I don’t like the look of them at all.”

  “Have ye seen Pa’s legs?”

  His eyes hardened behind them rimless spectacles.

  “I’m here to see you.”

  But two minutes later, back in bed. I’d won.

  *

  What with a thermometer (his word) shoved in me mouth, the dog fussing outside and the full guzunder under me mattress, I were almost past caring.

  “Something’s puzzling me,” he said, examining the thermometer afterwards. “I think you’ve been less than honest, Stanley. It’s not the grazes, although I suspect you’ve caught them being out and about since my last visit…”

  “I’ve not moved from here,” I protested. “Ye’ve just seen what I’m like. Feckin’ useless.”

  He seemed to let that pass, but I were ready to threaten poisoning his dog if he told Ma and Pa about me grazes.

  Outside me window, that killing sun were turning red and sinking behind Fletchers’ Fields. Our rivals who’d got their sugar beet in early before the drought took hold. They’d just bought new machinery too, and it were Pamela Fletcher - the wife - who rode the tractor up and down their fence, just to show off.

  “I’m going to ask a colleague of mine to take a look at you,” said the quack, just as I were thinking of her brown legs showing beneath her shorts. Her round bum perched on the metal seat… “So, in the meantime, try and eat. Keep taking sips of water, and…”

  “Who’s coming?” I asked, not keen on someone else snooping around.

  “Dr. Andrew Clements from London. I’ll let your parents know when he’s due to arrive here.” He packed away his thermometer and a small notebook he’d been writing in. His bloody dog was barking again as if the blighter knew the visit were almost over.

  “We’ll get you right. Just have patience.” He clicked his case shut.

  “I’ll try.”

  But once he’d reached the door, instead of going down the stairs, he turned around. “One thing, Stanley,” he said. “And it’s important. Mr. Menelos who was employed here, did he have runny eyes? Any sores that didn’t seem to heal?”

  He did.

  “Why?”

  “It’s too early to say, but please show me the courtesy of answering my question.

  “Just another one of our filthy, lazy workers who come and go. I never saw no sores.”

  “I see. Well, in the meantime, make sure your parents don’t touch you. You can easily wash yourself down below, back and front, and I’ll drop by with a proper bedpan tomorrow.” He pulled his jacket sleeves down to cover his shirt cuffs. Silver cufflinks in the shape of oak leaves. I wondered who’d given them to him, as he wasn’t married.

  *

  With him and his dog gone, me aching head began to churn round and round. More than that, the fire I’d felt in me brain after the fall, was worse. I shut me eyes and felt I were suddenly out in darkest space, naked and cold with nothing to guide me. Heading straight down to Hell already?

  16. SARAH.

  Tuesday 27th July 1920. 8 a.m.

  Although Joseph Cotterell, that handsome, kindly vet, had taken up most of my four restless nights, slipping in and out of seemingly unending dreams of huge skies and far horizons, in one which kept recurring, I’d seen a group of men in black robes and clerical collars, ringing their hand bells, making a truly mournful sound. But why? I’d wondered sleepily, and with no sign of the children, I’d woken up to yet another new sky beyond the window, never having felt so wretchedly alone.

  *

  By the time we reached Bury St Edmunds after a dawn start from Haverhill, Silver’s earlier lameness had returned. I sat up front with Will, but this time, the reins were in my hands as our cob took us past pretty shops not yet open and a handsome cathedral with a small fair in progress outside its open doors.

  “Can’t we stop and buy something?” Mollie whined.

  “No,” said Will scrutinising my every move. If we were to make the final stage to Diss, where helpful Dr Goldman had claimed workers were needed to harvest the crops before the drought worsened, there’d be no stopping and starting.

  The doctor had also made Buck better by giving him two inhalers. One for the daytime, the other, night. “Asthma,” he’d said. “Probably from anxiety, but it should lessen at puberty.”

  “He was never anxious back home,” I’d argued politely. “In fact, just the opposite.” I’d turned to Mollie, but she’d shaken her head.

  “All Dad’s fault,” she’d muttered. then hid behind me.

  “Rubbish!” Will had countered. “We’ve always been best friends, haven’t we, eh?” He’d ruffled Buck’s hair which I’d managed to comb while waiting for the doctor to take a look at him. But Buck had ducked away, knowing when his father was being false.

  “I didn’t mean to cause an argument,” Dr. Goldman had said, showing us how to use those strange-looking contraptions. “You’ve enough to think about.
”

  This broke the strained atmosphere, and Buck had laughed after pressing the oxygen button too hard.

  “Try and keep him away from too much dust,” warned the doctor as we we were leaving.

  “And telephone me if you need any more advice.”

  We’d need more than that, I remember thinking, seeing Silver resting on that same troublesome foreleg. How Will had pushed his way to the front, eager to be off.

  *

  None of us spoke until the dead heat forced us to shed our outer clothes and search for the stone bottle of water that Esther Goldman had kindly given us. However, it had seemed that the further east we travelled throughout the day, the hotter the evening sun became. We’d been glad to find two rooms at Radlett, where at least the landlord - a wounded former colonel from the Royal Cavalry who’d bound up Silver’s leg with a splint - had treated us as human beings. Unlike those London hordes who’d stared as if we’d been in a tumbrel on our way to the scaffold.

  *

  “I don’t think Silver can go much further,” I ventured, as we passed through the tiny village of Upper Town. The first we’d come across over the county boundary into Norfolk with not an actual town in sight. “See how he dips to the left with each stride? It’s cruel to make him keep walking. We’ve got money. We can find him a temporary home somewhere and get a replacement.”

  “Noooo…” wailed Buck, having sucked on his inhaler. “He’s just trying it on. He wants a rest.”

  “We can always buy a car,” Mollie said.

  “We’re going to Diss this way,” Will growled, brushing flies from his face. “Come Hell or high water.”

  “I hate those words. They make me scared.”

  “Baby, baby” muttered Buck, getting his own back. And for the briefest, guilty moment, I glimpsed how without their eternal squabbling and mood changes, my life would be much easier. I glanced back at her pink face. Her red arms. Redder than mine.

  “Scared, eh?” Said Will. “You’re a fine one after your loyalty at Dr Goldman’s.” He snatched the reins from me then used the spare, leather loop to give Silver a slap on his rump. The cob lurched forwards and almost went down. Mollie, who’d poked out her tongue, screamed and fell forwards against my back.