"Are you eating out here tonight, sir?" It was the same waitress he'd spoken to before. He shivered.
"I think not. The weather seems to be turning. Could you set me a table inside?"
"Of course. It'll be ready in ten minutes."
There was a pattern – coincidence no doubt – between the death of Kate and the predicament facing Nick and Aleena. But it was Nick's comment which troubled him most.
'You know nothing about love. How can I even begin to discuss something so special and personal with someone who's emotionally stunted?'
It felt like a kick in the stomach. He'd never seen himself like that before. He thought of himself as being emotionally complex but not 'stunted'. In fact, he craved emotional security. The string of girlfriends in London simply anaesthetised the pain he felt whenever he thought about Rachel.
"Table's ready, sir. I've put you by the window. That OK?"
"That's fine. Thanks."
"I'll fetch you the menu."
The room was quiet. The family diners with their noisy children and squawking babies had long since departed. Two couples occupied tables by the far wall, leaving him in peaceful isolation.
"Aren't you the gentleman that was here last week – asking about Penhallam Manor?" asked the waitress.
"Yes. You'd heard of it and gave me directions. I found it, so, thanks."
"Well, it was just that I was telling my dad about you. I hope you don't mind. We're not supposed to gossip about guests."
"I don't mind at all."
"Well, my dad was brought up close to there – in the next village, Monkton. So he knows a bit about what's been going on there over the years."
"I'm interested. What can you tell me?"
"Do you want to order first, then I can inform the kitchen? I'll get into trouble if I'm too long. I'll tell you when I come back."
He ordered a simple burger and with a great surge of willpower rejected the portion of 'hand cut' chips in favour of a 'locally sourced salad'.
Sitting back and staring out at the approaching storm, he felt strangely suspended between two worlds, unsure about which one was the more broken – his own, where morality and ethics seemed increasingly hard to define, or that of the Penhallams nearly four hundred years ago where right and wrong was defined simply by the side you belonged to.
"Chef's done it medium, sir. Is that OK?"
"That's fine." She placed the burger in front of him, accompanied by a bowl of salad. "You were going to tell me what your father said about Penhallam Manor."
"Well, years ago, when he was a boy, he used to know the old couple who owned the manor. They had a granddaughter come down from London in the holidays. They became friends so he got to go over there quite a lot."
"When was that – what year are we talking about?"
"Well, my dad's fifty-five, so about forty years ago. What'd that make it?"
"Early seventies."
"He said that one weekend he couldn't stay over 'cos there were journalists there from one of the big London papers. You remember that fight I told you about? Well, on the anniversary of the murder the ghosts are supposed to appear in the courtyard. He could still remember the date – May 27th."
"I can't believe that serious journalists come all the way from London to look for ghosts. That just beggars belief."
"Ah, but you don't know the whole story. What my dad told me – an' he got this from the family – there had already been a journalist there much earlier – before the First World War. And he wrote a story which caused quite a stir. The people who lived there claimed to have sat in the courtyard on the anniversary and seen the fight take place all over again – just like the first time. He described it in a paper called The Daily Chronicle. I don't think it's around anymore. Well, it caused a lot of interest at the time and Penhallam Manor was said to be the most haunted house in the country. Well, enjoy your meal, sir."
Later that evening he sat with his laptop and searched for The Daily Chronicle. He knew that it had changed its name in the 1930s to The News Chronicle and had eventually been absorbed by the right wing Daily Mail in the 1960s. Many papers had now placed their back issues into online libraries making them available for research. After ten minutes he located a library for The News Chronicle and with practiced speed he soon discovered a story relating to Penhallam Manor. It appeared to be one of a series reporting on 'England's most haunted houses'. In the style of the time, it was written with dramatic flourish. The manor was described as 'a Norman edifice, sombre and foreboding in appearance'. Much of the article consisted of an interview with the owners at the time who claimed to regularly hear 'anguished cries and screams from the souls of the poor dead who perished within the walls of the house'. At the end of the article was a brief mention of the re-enactment of the murders in the courtyard.
'It is said by the owners, who have observed the macabre spectacle, that on May 17th each year the souls of the dead return to re-enact the terrible slaughter which took place in the courtyard. A clashing of swords and the screams of the dying bear witness to the terrible tragedy that took place at this forsaken manor.'
Doug was suddenly struck by a discrepancy. In all other reports the date of the killings was given as May 27th – ten days later. Why did this report differ? He turned back to his laptop and searched for '17th century calendar'.
The next morning he booked a table at a restaurant about twenty minutes down the coast from Penhallam at a place called Rock – an affluent holiday resort for those escaping London in the summer. It boasted a one star Michelin restaurant and he managed to secure a table following a cancellation. After that he jogged along the beach, not at the punishing pace he had once used to maintain his fitness, but nevertheless enjoying the sense of adrenalin surging through his limbs and his mind feeling sharper and more relaxed. He showered, settled his bill and then set off for Penhallam.
When he got there, the gate was open so he drove slowly along the gravelled drive to the courtyard. The house seemed the same as before. Silent. No sign of life. He suddenly began to doubt what he was doing. He felt the urge to drive away but quickly checked himself.
At the front door he pulled on the bell cord and waited. He expected to hear the shuffling of feet and the sound of bolts being pulled. A light 'click' and the door swung open. He was taken by surprise. He didn't recognise the woman standing there. Yet he saw from her face and eyes that it was the same person. She looked at him nervously.
"I wasn't sure you would come."
Her hair was different, darker – she had added colour. Last time, it seemed grey and hung limply about her shoulders. Now, it was brushed and layered.
"I've booked a table at a restaurant in Rock. Fifteen. Do you know it?" he asked.
"Of course, I know it. I thought this was just a chat. Something simple would do."
Before, she wore a baggy blue tracksuit. Now, she was wearing a fitted navy dress which outlined her trim figure. Her face was lightly made up, with mascara accentuating her light blue eyes.
"It's quite well known, I think – run by that TV chef, Jamie Oliver. He employs young apprentices to give them a chance. Thought it might be a bit of fun." The conversation was stilted and awkward. He wondered if he'd done the right thing. "We'd better get going. I've booked the table for 12.30."
On the journey he sensed a barrier between them. She was polite and talkative but only because she had to be. She was doing what was required. Doug asked her to tell him about the area they were travelling through, about some of the myths and legends and about the rural life of the people. Her voice was educated and articulate but there was a flatness in the way she spoke.
They parked outside the restaurant and were shown to a table by the full-length glass window that overlooked the beach. Outside, children raced up and down on the wide sandy expanse, still enjoying the late Easter holiday. He looked at her. She turned away.
"You don't seem comfortable."
"I'm fine. I'm just not su
re what this is about."
"It's about Penhallam. It's about the book I'm writing and it's about moving on."
"What do you mean?"
"Let's order and I'll tell you."
A young waiter explained the lunch menu to them with much enthusiasm and Doug felt duty bound to ask some questions about the apprentices who ran the restaurant and what it was like working for a celebrity chef. Julia laughed a little and seemed to enjoy the banter. Laughing lit her face and radiated a warmth which had been missing before. The waiter poured wine for him and sparkling water for her.
"I think I need to tell you a bit about me – so you can see where I'm coming from."
"lf you want." The frostiness had returned. He told her about being features editor on The Nation's Voice and spoke of some of his major stories – he hoped without any sense of bragging. After their food arrived, he told her about the changes to the profession – changes that had led to him missing the activities of junior reporters who were involved in phone hacking. When he told her about his drink problem and how he had mistakenly hit the security guard and then fallen into the dock, her indifference turned to concern and she listened more attentively.
"What do your wife and family think about this?" she asked.
"I'm not married – not any more. Rachel divorced me two years ago. She's marrying someone else next month."
"I'm sorry."
"It's my own fault. Away from home a lot, working long hours, absent parent."
"Affairs?"
She was looking him straight in the eyes – challenging him.
"It goes with the job."
"It doesn't have to."
"No."
There was an awkward pause whilst they both stared out to the beach. A capsized boat was causing concern as people rushed into the surf trying to help the youngsters who had been pitched into the water.
"So you see, I'm at a bit of a turning point. I need to start writing again – I suppose to restore my self-esteem. I've known about Penhallam for a long while and I think the idea of writing a story about the Civil War based on the experience of the family living in the manor would be a good start."
"What sort of story are you going to write?"
"I want to understand the tensions that lay behind the conflict. What was it like living in a divided society? What did it do to families? What moved them? What drove them? Why did they die?"
She let out a sudden and involuntary laugh.
"They've been dead for centuries. How are you going to do that?"
His face reddened, unsure whether she was laughing at him or the magnitude of the task.
"I need to get immersed in the story. I need to get to know the people. That may sound crazy but it's the way I used to work."
Another pause. She looked at him quizzically and sipped from her water.
"So what do you want from me?"
"To talk to you. To find out more about the Penhallams. Maybe to see the place again."
Their main course plates were cleared and they both ordered desserts from the young waitress who described each offer with great relish.
"I can tell you what I know about the Penhallams and something about their history. Whether I can help you get into their heads is another matter."
He listened to her talk. As she warmed to her subject, her voice lost its flatness and she became animated. He found himself enjoying watching her, her expressions, her mannerisms, her enthusiasm.
Coffee came and was replenished. Families on the beach began to pack their bags and meander slowly into the town. Deckchairs were stacked into piles and tables inside the restaurant were being cleared.
"I think we're going to have to leave soon. We're the only ones left," she observed, looking around the deserted dining room.
"But there seems so much still to talk about," he answered. "Can I see you again – perhaps next week?"
"It means coming all the way back down here."
"I don't mind that. What do you say?"
She looked at him, sizing him up. Then a smile played briefly on her lips.
"I suppose you could always stay over. I've got plenty of rooms."
"You mean tonight?"
"My husband's away. He spends a lot of his time travelling. I can lend you some things to get you by. But I'm not cooking a meal. You'll have to make do with bread and cheese."
He tried briefly to decipher her motive. Was she making a pass at him? Was she simply agreeing to help him with his book? Did she need company?
"I'd love to stay over."
As they drove back along the coast road, shadows were lengthening and the sun slipped lower over the sea. He stopped the car outside the courtyard and they both sat for a moment to take in the gently rolling countryside now bathed in a soft evening light.
"You know, this scene is timeless," said Doug. "Back in Kate's time they probably looked out on the same view. It's strange to think that we're separated by almost four hundred years yet we're joined together by the same setting."
Julia looked at him wistfully, her blue eyes studying his face.
"I don't quite understand what you're looking for, Douglas. And I'm not sure you're going to find it here. But let's go in and find out." She got out of the car and walked up to the front porch. He followed her – drawn by a strong sense of inevitability.
Chapter 9: Penhallam, April 22nd 1643
Kate lay on her bed. The wealds across her back and legs still stung. But worse than that was her wounded spirit. She felt demeaned, humiliated, defiled and full of hate. She looked again at the face of the man who caused this – her father. His steely grey eyes bore down on her from the portrait on the wall and seemed to follow her every movement.
Since her father and Robert had left to join the Royalist force at Launceston, she had been shut in this room. Her mother had been instructed not to enter. Only Beth, the maid, was permitted to bring her food and water but was forbidden from talking to her.
Kate looked again at the face of her jailer – searching for some explanation, some understanding of why her life had become so unbearable. How could she fight him? How could she destroy him? She had seriously contemplated suicide. It would end her suffering and bring shame upon him. Only one thing stopped her – John. They had been lovers now for two years – since she was fifteen and it was only the hope that she would be united with him one day that kept her alive. But even that dream now was in ruins. As her father and Robert had ridden to join the Royalists, John had ridden with other young men from the area to join the Parliamentarians. Soon there would be an almighty battle that would decide the fate of the West Country.
As pain welled up inside her she stared defiantly into the eyes of her tormentor. She felt herself being drawn towards the grey expanse of his face until it enveloped her and wrapped her in mist so that she floated as she might in a calm ocean. Her pain receded and she felt at peace. She had the sensation of being in-between time, reaching back into the past and forward to the future. Then a feeling of not being alone – another presence nearby – familiar yet strange. And she sensed pain – like hers. As if her own pain was projected into the future. She heard the cry of a girl and a shot ring out. But she could only listen. It was not her time.
The sound of her door being opened propelled her quickly back to reality. Beth stood in the doorway holding a tray. Her head was bowed and she avoided Kate's look.
"It's alright Beth. The master's not here. You'll not be hurt."
She rose to take the tray from Beth. On it was a pitcher of water and a slither of bread. A cloth covered a slice of dried ham. She removed the cloth and immediately saw a small piece of paper protruding from underneath the meat. Her heart beating faster, she removed it and saw it was from John.
"Oh Beth, you angel," she whispered as she hugged the frightened girl. "Don't worry. No one will know. You are truly my friend."
Beth curtsied awkwardly and ran from the room. Kate pushed the door shut and began reading.
'My dearest Kate. How I miss you. It has been over four weeks now since we last met and I held you close to me. This war becomes more severe. The King's men have taken a stand near Launceston and I fear there will be a major confrontation within days. Before that happens, I long to see you again – perhaps one last time. I want you to meet me on Friday night. I have arranged for a man to escort you to a safe place where I will be waiting – his name is Ben. He will arrive at midnight. Dress as a boy. It will be safest. Wait in the shadows by the porch. My endearing love, John'
Tears streamed down Kate's face as she crumpled the note to her breast. The thought of seeing him again filled her with happiness but the thought that this might be the last time sent a shiver running through her body.
Chapter 10: Penhallam, April 22nd 2011
Doug followed Julia through the entrance hall into a large and airy kitchen. It was clear that this section of the house was not part of the original. One wall was dominated by a huge range above which hung a large selection of copper pans and containers. Against another wall stood a very large pine dresser cluttered with all of the normal accoutrements of living. Through the large casement windows, he could make out an overgrown garden with a small patch of mown lawn nestling between untamed shrubs.
"Coffee?"
"Yes. With milk. No sugar."
He watched her as she prepared instant coffee in two large mugs. She avoided unnecessary conversation. At first, he had felt awkward but now he was beginning to enjoy the lack of pressure. He used the time to study the room in more detail. The walls were painted but in need of some redecoration. Two large modern canvases hung near the door. They depicted swirls of colour, centred round a core – reminiscent of galaxies he thought. One incorporated colours from the red end of the spectrum whilst the other was bluish in tone. He began to get the feeling that this was her room.
Maybe the pictures were her connection with a different past. There was no sign here of the heavy ornamental furniture he'd seen in other parts of the house and little sign of the precision and order that had been evident there too. This room spoke of muddle and clutter but also perhaps of rebellion against the conformity and order of the old house.
The Voice Within Page 7