by Kate Ryder
I’d lit the wood burner before leaving for the airport and by the time we arrived home, the cottage felt warm and welcoming against the bitter night air. Storm thought it was great fun checking out Mo’s bags and had to jump on each one in turn, sniffing furiously.
‘This is so homely, Maddie,’ Mo said, as I showed her around the cottage. ‘I can see why you fell in love with it.’
We carried her bags up to the spare bedroom and she sat on the bed looking around appreciatively. The guest room had been designed to match the main bedroom and it, too, was built in the eaves with some effective, newly aged, exposed beams. It had a charming country feel and the new curtains added to the cosy ambience. Leaving my sister to settle in, I went downstairs to the kitchen. I’d made chilli con carne earlier that afternoon and I now put this into the Rayburn, together with some crusty rolls. While I waited for Mo to join me, I prepared a salad and poured two glasses of red wine.
‘Look who made himself comfortable on my bed,’ Mo said from the doorway with a contented Storm purring in her arms.
I smiled. ‘Well, you realise The Olde Smithy really belongs to him. I’m just here to open a tin or two.’ I tickled him under the chin and handed Mo a glass of wine. ‘How was New York?’
‘Won-der-ful.’ She strung out the word. ‘Jeff took me to loads of parties and I made some really good contacts. We had a ball.’
Being an O’Brien, Mo could party like the rest of us. She knew how to have a good time.
I chopped tomatoes and added them to the salad bowl. ‘So, this Jeff, he’s cool, is he?’
‘His Manhattan apartment is pretty cool.’ She grinned at me. ‘He’s red hot.’
I laughed and drank some wine.
‘In fact, he’s so damn hot we had to spend hours in his Jacuzzi, and the view from there… I could have stayed there all the time and not seen any more of New York than its skyline!’
We had a great evening, chatting and catching up. I told Mo about the unusual happenings at The Olde Smithy and how meeting Mrs McKendrick had completely thrown me.
‘Even though her family thinks she’s going senile, I disagree. I believe she’s far-sighted and knows something about the cottage… or me.’
Mo frowned. Eventually she said, ‘If this cottage has anything to tell you, Maddie, it will. It will give up more of its secrets as time goes by.’
A shiver ran down the full length of my spine. ‘That’s exactly what Dan said.’
‘It’s true,’ she said simply. ‘These old buildings have been witness to a lot of life and if momentous things have taken place in them, well… Memories linger, and sometimes we who follow are privileged to learn of them.’
‘But—’ and I wasn’t really sure what I was saying ‘—it’s more than memories.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said in exasperation. I knew my next sentence would sound truly off the wall. ‘Mo, I think I’m somehow linked to The Olde Smithy.’
She frowned again. ‘Did Dan say that too?’
‘No. I haven’t discussed this with him.’
She looked at me and was about to say something, but hesitated. ‘How is “Dan the man”?’ she asked lightly.
‘Who knows? The rotten sod hasn’t bothered to contact me for weeks. Obviously too knackered to pick up the phone or a pen.’ It still smarted that he’d forgotten to send me a Christmas card.
‘Must be quite a girl this Lucy.’
I’d kept her up to date with the Dan/Lucy ‘thing’. I refused to sanction it with the term relationship.
‘According to Caro, the minute Lucy arrived in London she moved in with him. She certainly wasted no time getting her feet under his table.’
‘Or into his bed,’ Mo said with a laugh.
But I didn’t join in. I was still unsure how I felt about no longer having Dan in my life.
It was way past midnight when, having polished off a couple of bottles of wine, we retired to bed. I noticed Storm sneaking into Mo’s room and just knew she wouldn’t throw him out.
The next morning I was awake before my sister and made my way quietly downstairs. I didn’t have to work at all that weekend, as Brian had generously given me time off when he learnt I had family visiting. It was a beautiful morning and it promised to be a good day. I was pleased the weather was fair as it allowed me to show off the area I had chosen as my home. Or had it chosen me? This part of Dorset offered many things to do, but I decided to ask Mo how she would like to spend the time. Floorboards creaked upstairs and I heard the guest bedroom door open.
‘Mornin’, sis,’ Mo called down. ‘One hungry cat coming your way.’
Appearing at the kitchen door, Storm immediately went to investigate his empty bowl. Indignantly, he looked at me.
‘No point you looking at me like that,’ I scolded affectionately. ‘Traitor!’
He came over and walked around my legs, rubbing against me and trying to curry favour as I opened a tin of cat food. Presently, I heard Mo come downstairs to the bathroom and I started to lay the table for breakfast. About five minutes later, the bathroom door opened again.
‘What do you want for breakfast?’ I called out.
‘Cereal and toast will be fine,’ she answered. ‘Just throwing some clothes on. I’ll be down in a minute.’
I walked back to the kitchen and poured orange juice into a couple of glasses. As I carried them through to the dining room she appeared in the open doorway leading out into the hallway. I thought she looked pale as she stared back up the stairs with an odd expression on her face.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Maddie?’ she asked slowly.
‘Don’t think so,’ I replied, placing the glasses on the table.
‘Who was that hunk I just passed on the stairs?’
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled and I noticed Mo was trembling.
‘You saw someone?’
‘Yes!’
‘What did he look like?’
She looked at me strangely. ‘Are you telling me, Maddie, you haven’t got some dishy man stowed away in this cottage?’
I shook my head.
‘Well…’ She paused, searching for the right words and eventually settling on, ‘Country.’
Instantly, I thought of the man I’d seen at the graveyard.
‘What do you mean country?’
‘Well, he was wearing rough clothes, like work clothes.’
‘But what did he look like? How old was he?’ I asked, the urgency in my voice shocking us both.
‘It was so quick, Maddie, I can’t recall exactly,’ she said apologetically. ‘He had a good aura though.’ She said it as if, somehow, that made it all right.
I smiled weakly. Auras were important to Mo. I started to climb the stairs and she followed. I knew there wouldn’t be anyone there but I had to check. Of course, both bedrooms were empty. I slumped down on my bed and looked at my sister.
‘Why do you think you saw something?’ I asked.
‘No idea. But the figure was as solid as you and me.’
‘I’ve started to keep a diary of all the things that happen,’ I said. ‘There seems to be a pattern.’
Sitting down next to me, she put her arm around my shoulder. ‘That’s a good idea, Maddie, but do you think you should uncover the history of this cottage?’
I nodded. ‘But where to start?’
‘How about breakfast?’ she suggested, the colour returning to her cheeks.
*
We spent the day driving around the countryside and visiting several places of interest. I parked the car at West Bay and we walked along West Cliff to Eype, stopping for a light lunch at the hotel there. Mo took many photographs. Her trained eye captured some amazing shots along the way and I found myself looking anew at the vistas before me. We carried on down the coast by car and eventually arrived at Lyme Regis. Being out of season, there were very few people about and we wandered around without the crush of holi
daymakers that I’d been told often made visiting the town a trial.
And then Mo said she wanted to take photos of me on the Cobb, as my long curly hair reminded her of Meryl Streep in the French Lieutenant’s Woman. As she directed me in various poses the professional photojournalist came to the fore. She had me looking wistfully out to sea or furtively glancing back over my shoulder, and at one point she draped me in her black scarf and ordered me to look into the camera with a haunted expression. She said all that was missing was Jeremy Irons.
A man walking his dog along the wall asked if I was a professional model to which Mo replied we were doing a shoot for Vogue. I thought for one moment she was about to invite him to join in, but, thankfully, she didn’t. I couldn’t stop laughing. Later, we browsed the various shops in the town and she said she wanted to buy something for me as a late Christmas present. At the back of an Aladdin’s Cave we found a large mirror set in a beautifully crafted driftwood frame.
‘This will go very well in your charming cottage,’ Mo commented, as we placed the mirror in the boot of the car. ‘Now, what shall we do for supper? I’m paying and it’s not up for discussion.’
We found a little bistro in the town run by a gay couple who had moved down from London the previous year. They were great fun and we had a delicious meal with plenty of laughter thrown in. It was an easy, unhurried day, spent in good company.
Later, driving back to The Olde Smithy, Mo said, ‘It’s been good spending time with you again, Mads. My work schedule over the next few months is chaotic, to say the least, and I’m so pleased we’ve caught up before it’s fully under way.’
I gave her a smile. ‘Will you fly back to New York at all?’
‘Probably for my birthday, but not before. Jeff says he’ll travel to wherever I’m based. One of the perks of being a high-flyer in the airline industry. Nowhere in the world is inaccessible.’ She smiled at me.
‘Is it serious, Mo?’ I asked, casting a sideways glance.
‘Not at the moment. It’s party, party all the way. But who knows what the future may bring.’ She laughed. ‘But what about you, Maddie? We all thought you and Dan would eventually get it together. God knows he’s been a part of your life forever.’
‘Oh, you know us. We were so comfortable together there was never any urgency to do anything differently. It was only when Lucy showed up that I wondered if we hadn’t been quite as clever as we thought.’
She nodded. ‘So, have you discovered any new talent in Dorset?’
Instantly I coloured. ‘Well, yes and no,’ I mumbled, thankful it was so dark.
‘Good God, Maddie, what does that mean?’ She turned to look at me.
And so I told her about Nick and my instant feelings for him although they were going nowhere fast, due to a long-standing girlfriend being on the scene.
‘Nothing like a challenge to make one inventive in pursuit,’ said my wiser, older sister.
I shook my head. ‘Not this time, Mo. No pursuit.’
‘That doesn’t sound like the feisty sister I know.’
I sighed. It seemed as if the weight of the world pressed heavily down on my shoulders. Life shouldn’t be this complicated.
‘He took his girlfriend to Australia for Christmas and New Year and his friends think he will have proposed to her out there.’ Even to my ears I sounded morbidly dejected.
Immediately taking control, in a brisk, no-nonsense voice my sister said, ‘Well, don’t forget it’s a big pond out there, Mads. There’s plenty more fish.’
Trouble was, I only wanted that particular fish.
*
Sunday dawned, another beautiful day. We woke late and decided on a leisurely day. We tried the mirror in several locations, eventually choosing the hallway at the foot of the stairs. As I stood back to admire it I noticed the internal stained-glass window beautifully reflected, the different colours of the leaded panes turning the mirror into a work of art in its own right. I started preparing brunch while Mo walked around the cottage with her camera, taking several photographs from the village green and also in the back garden. Storm, her constant companion, put in an appearance in most. As I made coffee and toasted bread on the Rayburn hotplate, Mo lay on the sofa with the cat stretched out on top of her.
‘This looks interesting,’ she said, flicking through the pamphlet I’d brought back from the church in Shipton Gorge.
‘That’s the church I visited the other day; the one where I saw the man and terrier at the graveside.’
‘Maybe we could visit St Martin’s today?’ she suggested.
‘That’s a good idea. The walk over Walditch Knapp will do us good after such a calorie-laden brunch.’
‘Ugh, Storm.’ She sat up and carefully removed the cat who was trying to lick her chin.
I checked the sizzling bacon in the frying pan.
‘It says here,’ she said, ‘Visible from almost everywhere in the village, the fourteenth-century church of St Martin’s stands on a small plateau on the south side of Brook Street. It retains its original fourteenth-century tower with an elaborate doorway but the remainder of the church was rebuilt in 1862, which more than doubled the seating of the old building.’
A distant memory surfaced, as I recalled how I’d expected the church to be smaller. I tried to catch the thought but it eluded me.
She continued reading aloud, ‘The architect was John Hicks of Dorchester for whom Thomas Hardy was then working – and the contractor, from a village of masons, was one of the Swaffield family. There has certainly been a church here for a very long time and the thirteenth-century font is unusual in that it has seven sides. There was likely to have been a partial rebuild in the seventeenth century, which added box pews and galleries. However, apart from the tower, the church was completely rebuilt in the nineteenth century.’
I stared at the simmering baked beans in the saucepan; my senses sharp. Not only had I instinctively known the font would be seven-sided but also I’d wondered where the box pews and galleries had gone. What did it all mean?
‘Storm, you’re really cute but I’ve already washed!’ Mo exclaimed. I heard her get up from the sofa. ‘That smells good. How’s it coming along?’
Shaken into the present, I called out, ‘Two minutes.’
*
After brunch, we walked across the village green and turned right towards The Hyde Real Tennis Court. Mo thought the chapel-like building built of Dorset ham stone was beautiful and took several photographs.
‘Apparently, it was built in 1885 to entertain the, then, Prince of Wales who was a real tennis fanatic,’ I said.
‘Has it always been used for that purpose?’
‘No. It was a real tennis court up until the First World War and during the Second World War it was used as an army facility. Since then it’s been a vehicle repair shed and agricultural building, or so Brian informs me.’
‘Am I going to meet this Brian?’
‘We could go to the pub for supper tonight,’ I suggested.
She put her hands on my hips and spun me around. ‘Well then, we’d better build up an appetite. Come on, race you up the hill!’ Laughing, she set off up the footpath at a fast jog with the camera bouncing on its strap around her neck.
I followed in hot pursuit and was immediately transported back to our wild, carefree childhood days in Ireland. The younger O’Brien girls, ‘peas in a pod’ we were told; the world our oyster and the future stretching tantalisingly before us.
We stopped at the top of Walditch Knapp to admire the view and catch our breath. It was a fine afternoon and high cirrus clouds scudded in from the west. I played the historian, authoritatively informing Mo that there was reportedly a Roman fort above the village. We scanned the landscape looking for tell-tale signs without success. I also explained that the series of terraces along the hillside were known as lynchets and that these were the first signs of arable farming from prehistoric times. My sister was very impressed, but I couldn’t keep it up and eventu
ally had to admit that a local historian had visited the pub the previous week.
Presently, we arrived at Shipton Gorge. When we reached St Martin’s Church, even though I now knew it had been rebuilt in 1862, I experienced the same sense of bewilderment as on previous visit. How altered the building appeared. As we entered the church, a couple of ladies looked up from their flower arranging and welcomed us in. The older of the two asked if I was the bride for the forthcoming wedding, for which they were dressing the church. I smiled and shook my head. We complimented them on their beautiful floral displays and said what a wonderful church to get married in. Leaving the ladies to their arranging, Mo and I walked around, quietly reading from the booklet I’d picked up on my previous visit. Again, it was very peaceful.
Once outside, Mo photographed the lych gate and the fourteenth-century tower in the winter sunshine, while I walked amongst the gravestones towards the area where I had seen the man. I clearly remembered he set flowers at the foot of a shiny new headstone, yet the graves at this end of the church were ancient. It didn’t make sense. I looked over at Mo working her way along the rows of stones, reading the epitaphs.
‘Some of these are so sad. Listen to this, Maddie. “In Loving Memory of Miriam Bowden, born 21st January 1860, died 21st January 1884 and of her beloved husband William Bowden born 18th October 1856, died 8th September 1888.” She died on her birthday and was only twenty-four.’
‘Better for her husband to have passed only four years later than to have survived another twenty without her,’ I commented.
As I spoke the words I turned ice-cold, as if someone had just walked over my grave. Briskly, I made my way to the spot where I’d seen the man and his dog, and glanced back at the angle it made with the church.
‘I don’t understand it, Mo,’ I said, as she joined me. ‘I’m sure this is the grave where I saw the man but there aren’t any new headstones here.’