by Kirsty Ferry
‘Camping?’ Chris stared at her as if she was mad. ‘Why on earth would I want to huddle under canvas when I can have a nice warm bed in a centrally heated hotel? Or a centrally heated flat, even …’ He left the sentence hanging rather suggestively and reached over. He trailed his finger down her cheek. ‘We should make the most of our weekends, you know.’
‘I know.’ Kate forced a smile. ‘Forget it. Camping’s rubbish.’
‘Yep. So – fancy a slow walk back to the cottages?’ asked Chris. ‘We could go via the wine bar if you like?’ He winked.
‘I don’t like. Let’s just head home.’
‘Great. Tell you what, I’ll buy another bottle of wine here and we can take it with us.’
‘Sounds good,’ Kate said. ‘But don’t expect a discount from Bob.’
It was one of the beautifully quirky things about her flat that Kate had the use of two staircases – pretty logical as it was comprised of two attics knocked together. One staircase led into the museum’s reception area and one into her little walled garden at the back of the terrace.
And on that particular evening, as Kate might have imagined, one thing led to another. She had let them into the cottages by the garden entrance and went up the back stairs to her flat. They had stumbled and staggered, a little bit giggly, into the flat and headed straight to the bedroom, Chris grabbing two wine glasses on the way.
It was as they lay there, Chris in a deep sleep, his dark hair tousled on the pillow, that Kate heard the cuckoo clock from downstairs signal it was midnight.
It signalled it was midnight, and then some; closely followed by a set of matching chimes from the Hall clock. She let it go until they had cuckooed and chimed fifteen times before she swore and dragged herself out of bed and down the stairs into the museum.
She padded through the reception and was just about to fiddle around with the damn things when they stopped, with a very clangy and resonant echo. The echo bounced off the walls of the room as she stood there, completely baffled. Unfortunately, the little cuckoo had stopped outside his door and Kate moved over to push him back inside as she always felt sorry for him when he dangled like that.
There was still a sound of chimes coming from far away though. She stopped and listened carefully. The musical tone was dancing through the terrace and she realised it was from way along the corridor – perhaps from as far away as the blacksmith’s cottage.
The thing about where the museum was located in Hartsford, was the fact that it was such a dark and quiet area. It was at the far end of the village, with nothing but fields backing onto it and the River Hartsford tumbling along at the edge of those; so noise carried. It didn’t bother Kate that the terrace was fairly lengthy and full of exhibits that belonged to long dead people. It didn’t bother her wandering through there at night. The most shocking thing was suddenly hearing the rabid ducks start a midnight argument.
But in the three years she’d been there, she’d never heard anything chime in the blacksmith’s cottage. It was cause for further investigation and she was heading along there before she’d even stopped to think about it.
It was a beautiful night. The sky was clear and the stars were bright. The moon wasn’t quite full, but it was full enough to light her way, picking out a trail through the leaded casements. One particular beam of moonlight shone right onto the ice-skates, making them glow and almost come alive.
There they were, on a rocking chair in the blacksmith’s cottage, twinkling invitingly and Kate smiled. She reached out for them, thinking she’d return them to the display case on her way back and—
Her fingers closed over the skates, just as she realised they had already been in the case when she’d done her lock-up at four o’clock.
And while she was there, what on earth was going on with that little clock on the mantelpiece? That was the one she’d heard chiming; but it didn’t belong there. She’d never seen it before.
Kate spun around, the skates in her hands and the room wavered in and out of focus. There was heat on the back of her knees from a low fire and a chill swept through her as the back door opened. A blast of icy air swirled in and took her breath away. A sharp pain shot up from her ankle and her leg buckled beneath her.
‘I told you to sit down,’ said a man who looked extraordinarily like Theo Kent. He grinned at her. ‘I’ve just fetched some more wood and I’ll have the fire going better in a moment. Please – rest awhile. I told you it would hurt if you stood up, didn’t I?’
Theo woke up with a start, his heart pounding. He’d had the weirdest dream.
He knew that red-headed Kate was in it, and he thought they were in the Folk Museum. She was in the middle of a room – it looked a bit like the one at the end, but different, if that made sense? He knew it was winter because it was damn cold and they had a fire going.
The thing was, it was so bloody cold, it woke him up. He realised at that point he was still in the tent and although it was June he was shivering. He lay on his back for a while and stared at the roof. There was an incessant drip drip drip on the fabric and he wondered if it was raining.
But the more he heard the noise, the more it resolved into an irregular tap tap tap; perhaps how hammering on metal would sound?
It was a very weird dream. He turned over and closed his eyes. He had a busy day tomorrow.
He realised just as he drifted off that of course he’d heard tapping – he lived right next to the forge, didn’t he?
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