Ghosts and Hauntings

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  “Can what?”

  “See them. I mean to say what evidence is there of their continued presence in the world when they become invisible to us?”

  “Oh, Sally, you do say the strangest things sometimes.”

  But Mary had to admit, if only to herself, and quietly at that in case she heard, that when she looked back at the station, it wasn’t there.

  “It must be a dip in the land.”

  “What must?”

  “Or the way the lane has turned, shielded by all those trees.”

  It was a bright sunny day with the warmth that accompanies such cloudless blue skies at the height of summer. The women were dressed in light summer dresses and with sandals on their feet they didn’t have the look of seasoned walkers.

  The narrow lane wound away from the train station and if they expected it to lead them to the village that had been described to them then they were mistaken. The lane was taking them deep into the countryside.

  Bordered on both sides by high hedges that were intersected at intervals by gates that led into fields where cows stood as motionless as death and where sheep were shroud white smudges on green baize. Golden Rod, Common Mallow, Ragwort, Cow Parsley, all bustled for space on the banks of grass. Bees droned lazily from flower to flower, pollen laden bodies fat and heavy in the heat.

  And it was getting hotter. As they walked slowly and without care along the tranquil country lane the sun beat down on their bare heads and gradually began to make them drowsy. Their feet dragged on the baked earth and they took frequent sips from their water bottles.

  “I can’t remember a summer as hot as this one,” Mary said.

  “I can barely remember what the weather was like yesterday, let alone summers past.”

  “It was as warm as this when you married John.”

  “It was a shame he had to leave.”

  It was a lovely warm day when she married.

  She thought her wedding day was perfect. Spring was gentle, with early mornings lolling through the winter haze, until she was waking to the sun and spending evenings with it. The wedding day was warm with enough wind to raise the hem of the dress from the ground, and make the posed photo session a lengthy affair. Sally was never so happy.

  They invited all the girls from the factory, and there were lots of them. Most of John’s friends, all recently de-mobbed the same as him, were there, although some looked as if their experiences still haunted them, and of course some hadn’t come back.

  Her parents catered for them the best they could even though portions were rationed out. There was plenty of beer, and so much home made wine that John said they could have sunk a battleship with it. That got some of them reminiscing and Sally went off to dance with her friends.

  Sally was dancing with a male cousin who had shyly asked her in front of her friends and they all giggled until the poor man went as red as a post-box. She was dancing with him when John came over, beer in hand.

  “Hey, what’s going on here then?”

  Sally and the cousin moved apart although still in a dancing embrace of sorts.

  John reached out his hand and put it on the man’s chest. “She’s married now, pal, there’ll be none of that.”

  “We’re only dancing. Nothing more than that.”

  “You were talking to your…”

  “Never mind that, love. I’m just popping outside for some air.” He jabbed his finger at the cousin. “You can join me. Have a cigarette if you like.”

  The misunderstanding between John and the cousin who had asked her to dance was unpleasant but when John came back inside he told her he had sorted it out amicably enough. If her cousin had to leave early then perhaps it was for the best.

  Speeches were made, food was eaten and drinking continued well into the night. Everyone spilled out into the grounds of the village hall and if there was supposed to be a time for it all to end that deadline came and went.

  The honeymoon was glorious, with weather they had no right to expect for the season. They drove down, and although she asked to share the driving he would not hear of it, and so she navigated from the passenger's seat.

  “The map says we should turn left at the next crossing,” she said and not for the first time he overruled her.

  “No need, love. If we stay on this road we’ll cut ten minutes off the journey. All the more time for us to…” He placed his warm, slightly clammy, hand on her leg and moved it upwards towards her stocking top.

  She pushed him away tentatively, he didn’t often appreciate being resisted.

  She was thinking she was rather superfluous as a map reader, as he seemed to know exactly where he was going.

  “Have you been to this hotel before?” she asked quietly.

  His glare made her instantly regret her temerity. “I thought part of the attraction was my worldly experience? My charms.”

  The sun shone the whole way, but she took little notice of the weather. It was too early for scenic colour, with a few patches of shrubs standing amongst the earth brown grasses. Winter moisture was evident in the pools, which would be dried soon by the summer heat to leave bare hollows, where grasses might intrude, or animals might shelter from the sun. She was disappointed, though she didn’t voice it as such, that he seemed intent with concentration on the road, with little interest in the damp beauty of the passing scene.

  The honeymoon was a week by the coast but the hot weather stayed true to them and they got sun burnt despite the crude suggestions of some of the guests at the reception that they would return as white as ghosts. They spent the week in a little town, and she glimpsed it first through the trees as they wound down into the valley, and then they took a corner and the town was there, laid out in front, with a stone bridge across a fast flowing shallow river. The dips and bends of the road had shown only part of the scene, and in total it was splendid.

  The hotel was quiet, out of season. There was only the one incident, well a mistake really, and not even worth making a fuss over.

  The maid had knocked and asked if she could clean up the room.

  John let her in; she was a pretty little thing. “Come on in, gorgeous. That’ll be all right won’t it, Sally? If…” He stared at the maid’s name badge on her breast. “…Melissa, sorts us out?”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway didn’t you say you had to pop out and get a birthday card for your friend?”

  “I thought we could do that…”

  “May as well do it now, eh? No sense us both getting in Melissa’s way.”

  So Sally walked the short route to the High Street shops and bought her card, she had some stamps with her in her bag, and then went back.

  The maid was leaving the room when Sally got back but she didn’t seem very happy. She was wiping her face, there may have been tears, and pulling at the top of her uniform as if it didn’t fit her properly.

  John was sitting on the bed, his face a little flushed perhaps. “She was a bit of a handful I can tell you.”

  “What do you mean? What’s she done?”

  “Only tried…you know, tried it on a bit…with me.”

  “But she must know you’re on honeymoon.”

  “Exactly. She said I asked her into our room, when all the time she must have been scheming to find a time when you were taking a walk in the town. She made quite a fuss I can tell you when I threw her out.”

  “But I only went into town because you…”

  “I expect she thinks I’ll complain to the manager but I think it’s best left alone don’t you? Sleeping dogs and all that.”

  “What a shame you couldn’t have more time…you know, together.”

  “I hear from him now and again. Never asks after me, just lets me know where he is and who he’s with.”

  “It didn’t work out, that’s what they say these days isn’t it. It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Perhaps if we’d been able to have children…”

  The lane was, if anything, becoming
narrower, and the hedgerows seemed to be gaining in height. It took a while for either of them to notice but they hadn’t passed a gate or opening in the hedgerow for some time.

  “We must have walked away from the village.”

  “If it exists.”

  “The man said…”

  “The man said, the man said…of course he did. His brother probably runs the pub and he wants our custom.”

  Neither of them noticed, caught up in the warmth and the brightness of the day as they were, but they hadn’t heard any birds singing for some time. They had listened to the shrill sounds for a long time as they walked away from the train station but now, still light, still bright, there was merely the low buzz of the bees that floated from flower stamen to stamen.

  “I wonder what the girls will be doing right now,” Sally said.

  Mary began to look at her watch but it wasn’t there. “I expect they’ll be gossiping as usual. Bending someone’s ear whether they want to hear it or not.”

  “They tease us sometimes don’t they?”

  “They talk about you when you’re not there you know. Behind your back.”

  “I’m afraid they do the same about you as well.”

  “I never join in. I suppose they will be chatting away about us now.”

  “They aren’t here now so they can’t hurt us.”

  Neither of them noticed, absorbed in their own thoughts, and occasional bursts of conversation, that the trees behind them were overhanging the lane a little too much, leaning forwards to one another as if seeking a better look.

  “Do you miss your father?” Sally said.

  Mary breathed out in a long sigh. “It was hard work, after mum went, but yes I do miss him.”

  The cancer was far too advanced by the time the outward signs manifested. Lumps weren’t a matter for discussion or even investigation for a man like her father and by the time a routine health check discovered uneven skin in various parts of his body it was too late.

  “I can still remember the doctor now, coming out from seeing him. ‘I’ve given him a little something to help him along.’ What he meant…”

  “I know what he meant. I was with you at the hospital, but I expect you’ve forgotten that.”

  “Oh no, some things I can recall quite clearly.”

  The pattering feet of the rain trampled over the mourning black they had all bought for the burial. For the family to be united was a cause for celebration of sorts, and she was pleased her mother came. Black clothes were seeping wet from the hearse black clouds which hovered overhead for a look at the dead, a glance at the commiserate carrion who herded in the mud at the graveside. Skeletons of trees, like gangling choirboys, stood with heads bowed from the weight of rain rather than fear or respect. A harsh winter wind, with the clarity of the innocent, whisked the pale remaining drifts of snow into the air, away from the melting rain, brushed them against the mourners, breaching their defences like the words of the minister.

  Mary was exhausted that last week before he went into hospital and didn’t come back.

  She grew to hate the tapping from above where he stamped his walking stick, no good to him as an aid to movement now he was bed ridden, but useful as a beckoning instrument when he banged it on the bedroom floor.

  “Dad, I’ve only just sat down.”

  “I need the toilet.”

  Another struggle to hoist him out of bed, another visit that was as embarrassing for her as it was undignified for him. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

  When he slept she could escape and when she closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else it was almost as if he didn’t exist at all.

  Neither of them had noticed but behind them the lane had disappeared. It must have still been there but, if they had looked around, all they would have seen would have been the barrier of elm, hawthorn, and hazel, splashed with the bright colours of the wild flowers.

  Their attention was completely focused on the cottage.

  It was stone built, solid looking, with newly thatched roof, latticed windows and a pink climbing rose creeping over the porch. The gardens were wonderfully chaotic with a profusion of lupins and roses, cornflowers and coreopsis. An abundant honeysuckle grew intertwined with clematis over and through a wooden arch, and daisy and buttercup grew undisturbed in the lush grass.

  The lane had led them here and as they looked at the cottage a lilting melody of birdsong began slowly to build from the trees that surrounded them until the air was filled with the sound. There was a slight breeze and it ruffled the trees and bushes in and around the garden like an indulgent uncle ruffling a child’s hair.

  “It’s lovely isn’t it?” Mary said.

  “Thanks.”

  Mary looked at her friend, puzzled. “Do you suppose anyone is in?”

  Sally pointed. ‘There’s smoke coming from the chimney so someone must be there.”

  “Bit warm for a fire.”

  “We should knock and meet them.” Sally pushed at the white wooden gate and took her first step onto the path that meandered up to the front door.

  “You never know it’s just as likely to be tea rooms, Devon cream teas served in the garden at the back,” Mary said.

  Sally was at the front door. She pushed it with her foot. “It’s open.”

  Mary stopped halfway along the path. “We can’t just walk in. It’s someone’s home.” She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun, and for a fleeting moment, before the net curtain twitched back into place, she saw a face at the window. “There is someone there, I saw them.” It was a woman, about the same age as she and Sally.

  Sally moved away from the open front door and looked up at the cottage windows. “Which window?”

  Mary pointed. “The middle one at the top. Look…look there’s a man there too.”

  But when Sally looked there was no one there at all.

  “Come on,” Sally said. “Let’s say hello.” And she was through the door before Mary could stop her.

  The living room they entered was larger than they would have thought from the outside and with its low beams and open fire place it felt cosy and welcoming. It was a while before Mary realized that there was no fire in the grate, and yet they had seen smoke coming from the chimney.

  Sally wandered through a doorway to the left of the stairs and while she was out of sight Mary drifted around the room and looked at the myriad of ornaments and few photograph frames on display.

  There were several small ceramic figures, horses mostly, which oddly was a passion of Sally’s. Mary picked up a silver frame from the window ledge and held it close to her face so she had a clear view.

  “That can’t be right…”

  “What can’t be right?” Sally called from another room.

  Mary carried the photo to the doorway through which Sally had disappeared. “This picture. It’s of you and John.”

  Sally stuck her head back into the living room. “It can’t be. Show me.”

  Mary held out the frame so that her friend could see it.

  “It’s not a good likeness is it?” Sally said, and disappeared again.

  Mary pulled it close again and stared at it. The people in the photo didn’t look quite as much like Sally and John as she had imagined. “You know, I don’t think the owners will be much pleased if they come home and find us ransacking the place.”

  Sally didn’t answer.

  “And don’t try any of that ‘if they’re not here perhaps they don’t exist’ nonsense. We’re breaking and entering.”

  Sally still didn’t answer and so Mary went in search of her.

  From the living room there was a small narrow passage that led into a neat kitchen furnished in stripped oak units and with dried flowers hanging from low beams on the ceiling. There was a pan of potatoes boiling on the stove and Sally was stirring them with a long wooden spoon.

  “Sally, what on earth are you doing?”

  “What do you want with them? I’ve f
ound some nice ham in the refrigerator.”

  Mary watched her for a few moments before she realized Sally was wearing a blue and white striped apron. “Where did you get that?”

  “This? Had it for ages. It was hanging up behind the kitchen door of course. Make yourself useful will you, open the back door and let in some air.”

  The back door was of the stable variety and Mary unlocked and opened just the top half. She looked out into the garden and wasn’t surprised to find there was no tea room arrangement, no one serving teas, in fact no one at all. There was a neat if crowded garden of flowers and bushes that mirrored the front garden. A small patio area was home to two grey metal chairs that sat next to a round wooden table that looked in need of some care and attention. The garden didn’t seem to have any boundaries; it merged with the trees at the bottom end and on all sides the countryside embraced it as if it was being offered up as some kind of sacrifice.

  Then Mary noticed that there was a cup and saucer on the table, and a book lying spine upwards next to them. They looked as if they had been quickly abandoned.

  “Sally,” Mary turned back into the kitchen. “This place is a bit like…you know that boat.”

  “The Titanic?”

  “No, that was the film with those two young people wasn’t it? No, the boat where the people had mysteriously…”

  “Marie Celeste.”

  “That’s the one. Don’t you think this is wrong? Someone should be here.”

  Sally turned the gas off under the potatoes on the hob. “I tell you what. You slice the ham, I’ve put it on the plate over there, and I’ll pop upstairs.”

  Mary watched as Sally left the room and if she had remembered about the people she had seen at the windows it hadn’t registered in her mind until now.

  She sliced the ham and laid it out on two plates she found in a cupboard. She drained the water from the potatoes and laid equal measures on the plates. It looked a little sparse and so she delved into the cool drawer of the fridge and found some fresh lettuce that she chopped and added to the plates.

  At the foot of the stairs she called up. “Sally, lunch is ready.” There was no reply.