‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you feeling all right?’
It was a moment before she replied. ‘Tired.’
‘Shall I make you something?’ He put his head on one side and gave her a small hopeful smile. ‘To cheer you up? Boiled egg and soldiers?’
‘I’m not a child, Ken,’ she snapped.
For a moment she wondered if she was going to hit him but somehow she managed to restrain herself. ‘Sorry, I’m still feeling a bit frazzled,’ she went on at last. ‘An egg would be nice,’ and she headed back onto the landing. Below her in the shadows of the living room something moved and just for a second she thought she heard the chink of a horse’s harness and the scrape of a hoof on cobbles.
‘Ken!’ It was a whisper. ‘Ken, come out here.’
He didn’t hear her. Already he had become immersed in the screens on his desk. He had probably completely forgotten her. She stood leaning on the balcony’s wood and glass balustrade, looking down. There were horses down there, and with them a man; shadows, imprints in time. She could see them, sense them, hear them, then they were gone.
Edith threw down her spindle with a groan and walked across to the door of the cottage. She ought to be waiting on the Lady Hilda in the weaving house with the other women, but she had dawdled at home, hoping and praying that her husband might appear even if for only a short time. She had made him a new leather jerkin, stitched with waxed thread; it hung from a peg even now, catching her eye as it swung to and fro in the draught. She missed him desperately; his voice, his humour, his company, and above all his strong agile body in her bed. But he had decided suddenly, and as far as she could understand completely arbitrarily, that while he made a sword for the lord of their village he must abstain from his wife’s embraces and keep himself pure. Even thinking about it made her eyes fill with tears. As if she were impure. Something unclean. This was some heretical belief of the thegn’s. He had denounced the Christian beliefs of his family and his wife and begun praying to the gods of his forefathers.
As had Eric.
The knowledge had been there all along, buried deep inside her, and she had tried to ignore it, but why else had he turned away from her bed? Why did he make excuses not to go to church? Why had he agreed to make this sword a pagan sword; how else would he have known the spells and the charms to be recited over the blade as he forged it in the fire?
She sighed. The gods of their ancestors had been powerful gods. She found herself thinking suddenly about Frige, the goddess her great-grandmother had worshipped, the goddess who made marriages fruitful, whilst now, she bit her lip thoughtfully, though she prayed often and fervently to the Blessed Virgin, her own marriage to Eric was still childless.
‘Edith?’
Lost in her dreams she hadn’t seen the figure appear in the doorway. Eric stooped and came in, pushing the door closed behind him, shutting out the light. ‘Eric!’ She threw herself at him and for a moment they clung together. She nuzzled his neck, and pulled his face to hers, seeking his lips with something approaching hunger. ‘Have you finished the sword?’ she whispered. ‘Have you come home?’
For a moment longer he held her close against him then slowly he pushed her away. ‘I’m sorry. Not yet. But it won’t be long, sweetheart, I promise.’
Bereft, she stood for a moment, her eyes closed, fighting her tears, then she straightened her shoulders. ‘Why are you here then?’
He didn’t answer for a moment, then gave her a sheepish grin in the twilight shadow of the small house. ‘I thought you would be in the weaving house with Lady Hilda.’
‘Which is where I should be.’ She waited but he said nothing more. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then he turned to the door and lifted the latch. ‘It won’t be long, I promise, my darling.’ However long it took to engrave the magical runes, the special symbols, the words of power which would make this sword unique.
She watched as he strode away towards the edge of the village where the tithe barn hid his forge and workshop from her view, then she turned back to the fire. Overhead the drying herbs hanging from the ceiling rustled gently, disturbed by Eric’s passing.
‘I’m sorry. I was rude again, wasn’t I?’ Leo was standing on the back doorstep. He was empty-handed this time, his hair blowing in the stiff breeze, dressed in a heavy blue Guernsey and faded jeans. ‘Can I apologise?’
Zoë stood back and nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Five minutes. It’s my turn to be busy. I am just going into Woodbridge.’ Now that she was used to the scars on his face she could see what a good-looking man he must have been. She led the way into the kitchen where her handbag and shopping basket were sitting side by side on the worktop with her car keys.
He grimaced. ‘Bad timing. My trademark. Just like you.’ He followed her in and stood by the table. ‘I just thought a word might be timely about our mutual neighbours. I dare say you’ve noticed that they are here for half-term.’
‘I noticed but I haven’t spoken to them yet.’
‘The youngest kid, Jade, she’s a good mate of mine. Something she said rang alarm bells. I think there might after all be a plan to try and scare you both. Playing ghosts. Weird noises in the night, you know the sort of thing. They are a malicious bunch and their idea of a joke might not be yours. Or mine, for that matter.’
‘So the whole ghost thing is a scam?’ She heard her voice rise at the tightness in her throat. She exhaled sharply. ‘It’s all a joke?’
‘Not all of it, no,’ he said quietly. He glanced at her face then looked away again. ‘Sorry. But as they are here, and they appear to be in malicious mode, you might be in for an escalation of events for a few days.’
‘They weren’t here, though, when the noises started, were they?’ Her moment of relief disappeared as soon as it had come.
‘No they weren’t.’
‘So all the door banging was real.’
‘Might have been the wind.’
‘And last night,’ she was silent for a moment, trying to make up her mind whether to tell him or not, ‘we came back tired after the most god-awful sail I have ever had and I was upstairs, looking down over the balcony and I thought I saw, heard, horses, quietly munching their hay, scraping their hooves. Maybe I didn’t actually see or hear them. I just sort of sensed it.’ She shook her head, embarrassed, sorry she had mentioned it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. ‘Don’t laugh at me. I expect I was hallucinating. I was so tired.’
‘I’m not laughing. I am sure horses have lived in here on and off over the centuries. Buildings hold memories. You were tired; your mind was relaxed, open.’ He hitched up to sit on the corner of the work station, one leg swinging. ‘So, what was so awful about the sail? I got the impression you were seasoned mariners.’
‘Ken is. He loved it. We were out in the sea, it was a bit rough, I suppose, and he decided to come back and we touched the bottom and suddenly I realised I was scared. Really scared, more scared than I have ever been in my life.’ She put her hands to her face for a moment.
‘We all get scared from time to time.’ He spoke with an unexpected gentleness. ‘That’s what gives the adrenaline.’
She shook her head violently. ‘No. Not like this. It is supposed to be fun. And yes, exciting, but not so deeply, deeply frightening.’ She looked at him for a second and then shook her head again.
‘Why did you let him drag you up here if you hate it?’ he asked after a moment. ‘The move wasn’t for your benefit at all, was it?’
There was a long pause. ‘I don’t hate it. I thought it would work. It was a challenge.’ She held his gaze defiantly.
‘And sailing, is that a challenge too?’
She walked across to the window and stared out. ‘I can’t live my whole life afraid.’
‘It strikes me that you would be afraid of very little,’ he said thoughtfully.
She grimaced. ‘But then you don’t know me very well. Perhaps afraid is the wrong word. In a rut, then. London was
comfortable and safe.’
‘And sailing isn’t safe.’
‘We sailed before.’ She hunched her shoulders defiantly. ‘It was fine. It is fine.’
In the distance the river water was dull, sluggish, creeping in, creeping up between the banks. She could feel the cold tiptoe across her shoulders and deliberately fought the reflexive shiver. The kitchen was warm.
‘It was partly because of his enthusiasm that we came here, of course it was. Our life together has always been like that. He’s the match, and I smoulder into flame.’ She broke off and it was a moment before she laughed. ‘But this time the flame hasn’t caught. Or not the way I expected. I thought I would like it here. I did – do – love it here. But something is wrong.’ Why was she confiding in him like this?
‘Does Ken know how you feel about all this?’ he said after a long pause. He had been watching her while she spoke.
She nodded.
How could she explain the complexity of their relationship? It was Ken’s enthusiasm, his drive, his passion which attracted her, his wiry single-mindedness. But it was that same single-mindedness which excluded her, blanked the parts of her personality which did not fit his template. Once she had thought she could change him, but the change, if there was to be change, would have to be hers, and that admission, that she had judged him wrongly, and that she must change herself or be for ever sidelined had been too hard to make.
‘You love the river,’ she said, turning back to face Leo.
‘Yes.’
‘And you love sailing.’
He nodded.
‘Are you never afraid?’
‘Everyone is afraid sometimes, Zoë.’
‘Yes, but in Ken’s case he’s hooked on the adrenaline. He’s competitive. He is always testing himself against something. Fear excites him.’
He made no comment and she turned back to the window. ‘Ironically it was the river that drew me to this house. It fascinates me. But now we are here for some strange reason it –’ she hunted for the right word – ‘it repels me as well. I find it as sinister as it is beautiful.’
‘I saw you sketching it.’
She glanced at him, startled. ‘When?’
‘You were down on the boat.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t draw. I can’t do anything. I was trying to find something to occupy me while he tinkers with the boat. Sketching will not be it.’
‘I’m sure you will find something.’ He grinned. ‘Do you have to go down on the boat to keep him company?’
‘I don’t think he even notices I’m there half the time.’
‘There you are then. You need a land-based hobby.’
‘I jog, but that is hardly a hobby. Not for me, anyway. I need to sort out my life, my relationship, my whole raison d’être.’ She shrugged. ‘No. Forget I said that. That is part of something I have to sort with Ken.’
He gave a half-nod. ‘Fair enough. It’s forgotten.’ He stood up. ‘My five minutes is up. Just keep a wary eye out for the kids from hell, OK?’
She gave a faint smile. ‘So, apart from your mate, Jade, how many did you say there are?’
‘Three boys. Darren, Jamie and Jackson. Jackson doesn’t feature much, thank goodness,’ he grinned. ‘He’s left school and is for all I know collecting ASBOs; I doubt he has any other qualifications. Which is a shame. Jeff and Sharon are decent people, chaotic and noisy and sometimes irritating to a grumpy codger like me, but still salt of the earth.’
Zoë put her head on one side. ‘In my experience when people are described as salt of the earth it usually means they are just the opposite.’
‘Then your experience is unfortunate. I meant it.’ His voice had hardened.
‘Sorry.’ She felt a surge of irritation at the rebuke. ‘So, the two I have to watch out for are Darren and Jamie.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘Just being neighbourly.’ He headed towards the door.
She stayed where she was, watching as he walked past the window and across the grass towards his house.
‘Was that our new neighbour?’ Ken had appeared in the doorway and she turned with a start.
‘Why didn’t you come and say hello?’
‘He seemed to be in a hurry. What a dreadful state his face is in. Why on earth doesn’t he get it fixed?’
‘Money.’ She reached for her car keys off the counter. ‘I was going to pick up some stuff in Woodbridge. Do you want to come?’
He shook his head. ‘I thought I would go down to the Lady for an hour or two. Unless you want me for anything else?’
‘No.’ She managed to restrain the sigh. ‘Do you want lunch later or shall I leave you to do your own thing when you come in?’
‘Why not do that? I lose track of time a bit down there.’ He gave her his boyish smile.
She smiled back. Don’t you just, she thought.
She hadn’t planned on visiting the library after the supermarket but suddenly it seemed a good idea. She found her way to the local history section and located one book which looked as if it might enlighten her about the area. She thumbed through the index, looking for Timperton Hall, smiling as she rooted around in her bag for a pen and paper. Did people, she wondered, always start a ghost hunt like this?
In the event there wasn’t much information to be had. The Hall had Tudor origins but had burned down and been rebuilt in the late seventeenth century by the Crosby family, who had lived there for nearly two hundred years. Nearby was the home farm. There was no village as such, apart from the site of an early church which had long since disappeared. That suggested that at some point there had been at least some sort of hamlet in the area. Now there was nothing to suggest that – apart from the barns, which clearly had been part of the estate – there had ever been any kind of settlement on the edge of the river nearby. The nearest church now was St Edmund’s at Hanley Heath, two miles away, and it was there, apparently, that the last members of the Crosby family, which died out in 1873, were buried.
Zoë leaned back thoughtfully against the bookshelves. A small country estate with no particular history. A microcosm of English history. She smiled. Rosemary had made friends with someone who lived in the Hall and had offered to take her up there. It would be nice to go inside, but she suspected that, as had happened with the barns, most traces of its previous history would have been eradicated by the developers. How sad.
She glanced down at a map of the estate at the end of the book, which showed the cluster of barns, the tracks through the woods, an old landing stage, several small houses, which she hadn’t noticed and were probably long gone, and found herself wondering whether she would ever begin to feel at home there.
Putting down roots was a mysterious business which had never happened to her. Her parents had moved often when she was a child and she felt that at base she had never really called anywhere home. She stared unseeing at the map. She had gone from boarding school to Durham University to read English and had then found a job in London where she had shared various flats with a motley selection of people until she and Ken had married ten years before. They had moved twice, both times within a fairly small area, always aware that they would move again. This launch into the country was a change of pattern, an uneasy step, as she had told Leo, out of her comfort zone. Once she had got used to the idea it had seemed exciting and a bit zany. Her friends thought they were stark staring mad, and she had laughed at them, jeering at their lack of sense of adventure, but now she was beginning to realise they were right. She and Ken didn’t fit. No one in the barn complex fitted. They weren’t local. They didn’t belong. They had all been plonked as though from outer space into a pretty piece of countryside and the safety net had been whisked away. And the real locals, the real inhabitants, be they alive or long dead, resented them. Especially the long dead. She looked up, mulling over the disturbing thought. They were still there, still doing their thing as though nothing had changed.
And they resented the newcomers bitterly.
‘Excuse me, we’re closing in five minutes.’ The librarian was standing beside her with an apologetic smile. Deep in her reverie Zoë hadn’t noticed her.
She glanced at her watch. ‘I was dreaming. I had no idea I had been here so long.’ Flustered, she pushed the book back onto its space and tucked her notes into her bag then she went to find a coffee shop. She already had a favourite. Surely that meant something.
Lesley Inworth had the ground-floor flat on the right-hand side of the front door of Timperton Hall. She led Zoë and Rosemary into the sitting room and gestured round. ‘Isn’t it a lovely room? I think it’s the nicest in the house. We have this marvellous view down across the river in the distance. The rest of the flat is small. It’s been divided so everybody gets one or two nice rooms and then one or two of the smaller ones at the back. My bedroom was the squire’s study. The stables have been turned into another flat at the back and there are two more upstairs.’ She was a wispy woman, thin and wiry, in her late forties, widowed, according to Rosemary, who had given Zoë a quick update on her background as they walked up the hill, with two daughters who both lived in London. Her passion was gardening and she was employed by the residents’ committee to supervise the grounds and to look after the Victorian gardens, which had miraculously survived and which were very beautiful.
Zoë had been wrong about the Hall losing its character. It had been converted with great care to conserve its architecture and make use of its features. They sat down round the fire, which burned in a beautiful Regency fireplace, while Lesley poured coffee and produced some homemade cake.
‘The history of the house was very sad at the end,’ she said in answer to Zoë’s query. ‘The Crosby family had lived here for generations, then the last squire had no children so the estate passed to some distant cousin who never actually came here. Then his son was killed in the First World War and there was no one else. It was sold up. I expect that happened to so many families.’
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