As Shadows Haunting

by Deryn Lake

  “You all right?” he said.

  “Yes, thanks,” Sidonie panted. “I’ve fallen over, that’s all.”

  He tried to heave her to her feet but fell beside her, giggling, his ebony face spectacular in such white surroundings. Then with a great deal of grinning he struggled back up again as Sidonie did too.

  “You’d better go home. Ain’t no good getting wet at your age.”

  Sidonie laughed, then the sheer relief of being back in familiar surroundings overwhelmed her so greatly that she wept again.

  “’ave you ’urt your knee?” said the boy, simultaneously embarrassed and concerned.

  “Yes. I’ll be all right in a minute. Here, this is for Christmas.” And she gave him a pound coin from her coat pocket.

  “My mum said not to take money from strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger really. You helped me get up.” And Sidonie plodded away before he could argue further.

  But even the safety of the Garden Flat could not allay the emotions that this most recent experience had aroused. For now Sidonie was forced to admit finally that those other occurrences which she had dismissed as dreams or delusions could no longer be explained away, that they had been genuine psychic phenomena in which she had glimpsed Holland House and its inhabitants as they once had been in another age. The very concept opened a floodgate of bewilderment as to why she who had never seen a ghost should be the one to glimpse such mirages, such echoes from the past.

  Desperately trying to be sensible, Sidonie looked at the clock to see how long the experience had lasted. She had left the flat at a few minutes past noon; now it was four o’clock. What had seemed to happen in only a brief space of time had actually taken some considerable while. Resolutely, the musician noted down the fact at the back of her diary.

  But no amount of being orderly, of trying to be calm in the face of such tumultuous events could help her. Feeling spineless and silly, Sidonie wept again, though this time with a sense of confusion rather than abject terror. With tears streaming down her cheeks, the ring of the telephone was a harsh intrusive sound. Almost before she picked it up, Sidonie had guessed who it was.

  “Hello, darling,” said Nigel’s voice. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. How are you?”

  “I thought I’d ring to remind you that it’s New Year’s Eve. Are you celebrating?”

  “Yes,” Sidonie lied. “I’m going to a party at Rod’s.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity. I was going to invite you to join me. The Chancellor’s having a reception at Claridge’s for his blue-eyed boys.”

  “That sounds different. Sorry I’m booked, though I’m sure you’ll find somebody to go with.”

  “I have no lack of partners,” Nigel answered angrily. “I just thought my wife would be the most fitting person to accompany me on such an occasion.”

  “Your ex-wife,” Sidonie countered. “We have been divorced a year, you know.”

  “It seems more. I still miss you — a lot!”

  The very way he spoke brought back bitter memories of her marriage.

  “You miss having someone to act as hostess, that’s all.”

  “You’re a bitch, Sidonie. That remark was entirely uncalled for.”

  “Oh, go away,” she said, only just in control of herself. “You have no right to ring up and harangue me. Leave me alone.”

  And with that she banged the receiver down, feeling thoroughly fraught. A moment later the phone rang again and, snatching it up, Sidonie barked, “It is an offence to make nuisance calls in case you didn’t know.”

  “Well, I’m not making one,” answered Finnan’s voice, “though I can if you want me to.” Sidonie stood gasping, unable to utter, and he went on, “Has someone been bothering you?”

  “Only Nigel,” she answered huskily.

  “Oh! That’s naughty goings-on for a junior minister. Anyway, other than him, how are you? Did you have a good Christmas?”

  “Very relaxing. What about you? Are you phoning from Dublin?”

  “No, Gatwick. I just wanted to know if you’re doing anything tonight.”

  Sidonie smiled, letting the sound of his voice wash over her, wondering why it was that simply hearing him made her feel so much better.

  “I’m not actually. What did you have in mind?”

  “Going to Brünnhilde’s for dinner. I haven’t booked a table but I’m sure they’ll squeeze us in somewhere. Would you like to?”

  “I’d adore it.”

  “Excellent. Can you get hold of a minicab for about eight o’clock, to bring us home at two?”

  “I’ll try. Oh, Finnan, thanks. I needed something like this.”

  “Good. See you at six.”

  His money ran out and he put the receiver down.

  ‘Is this great attraction love?’ thought Sidonie, and immediately started wondering what to wear.

  Fortunately she was in the bath when she heard the doctor return and so was able to resist the temptation to rush into the communal hall and tell him all about the events that had befallen her earlier that day. Instead, she behaved impeccably and when he finally rang her bell answered the door looking composed and beautiful in a long dress of ice blue velvet which she had last worn at a concert in Vienna and which still had pinned to it a crystal brooch, not expensive but exquisite, which an elderly Viennese admirer had presented to her.

  “You look marvellous,” Finnan said in admiration. “I’m so glad you weren’t otherwise engaged, as they say.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you,” she said, throwing caution to the winds and giving him a hug. “I wasn’t expecting you back.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to come back but the family scene began to pall a bit. The trouble with the Irish is that they tend to leave Ireland and then sing about it. My brother-in-law took to weeping into his gin as the nights drew on.”

  “Did he leave Ireland?”

  “Not at all. What he found so moving was the fact that I had gone.”

  “Oh I see! Did you kiss the Blarney Stone while you were there?”

  “Listen, from Dublin to Blarney Castle is a fair stretch but I must confess that in my misspent youth I gave it a couple of goes.”

  “Is it true you have to hang upside down to get at it?”

  “Like a bat,” said Finnan and gave Sidonie a smile that warmed her heart.

  “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said and squeezed his arm.

  “Did you miss me, then?”

  “I certainly did. The house was quite creepy with no other tenants in it.”

  “Oh, so that’s the reason.”

  “No, I missed you for you as well.”

  And after that she said no more, returning to her cool image as they made their way to the restaurant, got a table, and donned silly hats and masks in the true spirit of the occasion. Yet, despite this, there was a certain restlessness about Sidonie which she could not quite conceal, the extraordinary events of that day still weighing on her mind and worrying her.

  “You’re preoccupied,” said Finnan. “Is it Nigel?”

  “No, he’s just a minor irritation really. There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  Impulsively, Sidonie stretched across the table and laid her hand in his.

  “Do you remember me telling you about a dream I had in which I saw Holland House as it used to be, complete with a coach going down a drive that’s no longer there?”

  “Yes, yes I do.”

  “You said then that perhaps I had stepped back in time, that you believed in lands beyond the mist. Did you mean it?”

  “What exactly are you asking me?”

  “Finnan, ever since I moved here odd things have happened to me. I’ve seen the house restored to its former glory on several occasions. I’ve seen a girl in eighteenth-century dress. Today, in the snow, I found myself in a planted woodland in a landscape that had entirely changed. The girl was there with three others, all of them from about the 1750s.
It frightened me because I knew they could see me too. And if it is all a hallucination, why? I’m not on drugs, I only drink socially, and I am most certainly not having a nervous breakdown.”

  The doctor looked at her in silence and for the first time Sidonie had the feeling that he was regarding her with something of a professional eye.

  “I could answer in one of two ways,” he said finally. “I could tell you to see your GP and have a checkup or I could say that for some reason we don’t understand you are being privileged to glimpse another age.”

  “But how can I be?”

  “Which?”

  “Seeing things from another time because I know I’m perfectly well.” For a moment Sidonie seemed a little uncertain. “At least I think I am.”

  “You look the picture of health to me. And the other answer I can’t give you, except to say that a stone thrown into a pond sends out ripples that go on and on. Perhaps you are seeing a distant ripple.”

  “So you don’t think I’m mad?”

  “No, I don’t, I think you’re beautiful.”

  The sound of Big Ben boomed into their conversation. It was midnight and everyone had risen to their feet and linked hands for “Auld Lang Syne”.

  “People can be beautiful and mad, you know,” whispered Sidonie, laughing.

  “Like Ophelia or Lucia di Lammermoor?”

  “Two fine examples.”

  “May I wish you a Happy New Year, lovely loony?”

  “And Happy New Year to you, Finnan.”

  They shared a briefly delicious kiss before turning to the people next to them and wishing them well. Then they were in each other’s arms again and Sidonie realised with certainty that she was about to have an affair. A neat little particle of her brain stood back and looked critically at the situation, attempting to envisage any future pitfalls. But apart from the usual dangers of becoming involved with another person she could see none in particular.

  “I’m more complicated than you think,” said Finnan, reading her mind.

  “And I see ghosts.”

  “What a lovely couple!”

  Their happiness at that particular moment was superb and intense, full of the excitement that heralds the start of any new relationship, and when they came back in the small hours to the house in Phillimore Gardens there seemed little need for many words to be spoken.

  “I would be greatly honoured if you would stay with me,” Finnan said quaintly, meaning every word.

  “And I would be honoured to do so,” Sidonie answered, also speaking the truth.

  Standing hand in hand on Finnan’s balcony beneath a million icy stars, gazing out over the frosty park to the snow-covered ruin that had once been a great house, they kissed long and ardently, then went to his bedroom without haste.

  “You’re tired,” Finnan said, looking at the shadows beneath the golden eyes.

  “Yes, I am. Yesterday I wandered into the eighteenth century and it exhausted me.”

  “Then we’ll sleep.”

  How comforting it was, she thought, to be naked in his arms yet still able to rest.

  “Don’t worry,” Finnan murmured as Sidonie closed her eyes. “I’ve waited such a long time for this that one more night makes no difference at all.”

  “Has there been anyone since Rosie died?”

  “A couple of superficial encounters. Nothing important.”

  “Am I important?”

  “You could be, very.”

  “Oh good,” Sidonie said, and fell asleep.

  She woke to his kisses, very passionate, very Celtic, and instantly longed for him to make love to her. But Finnan took his time, caressing her pretty breasts, running his hands over the delicate length of her. But finally the awaited moment came and, caught up in his extraordinarily powerful rhythm, Sidonie cried out with pleasure.

  “Good?” Finnan whispered.

  “Very.”

  But those words did not adequately describe the feelings that they aroused in one another nor the great burst of sensation as they came to the climax of love almost simultaneously. “Oh dear,” said Sidonie, when both of them had eventually grown calm again.

  “What?”

  “That was seriously marvellous.”

  “Personally I could become addicted to such delightful pastimes.”

  She laughed. “That’s going to be difficult when I go on tour.”

  Finnan propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. “We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. In the short term I’ve somehow got to avoid turning into a pest as far as you’re concerned.”

  Sidonie stared at him seriously. “You could never be that. You’re far too nice.”

  “You probably thought that about Nigel once.”

  “Funnily enough I didn’t. And by the way it was never like this with him.”

  “Don’t be too kind to me. I might fall in love with you and then where would you be?”

  “Probably exactly where I am now,” Sidonie answered, and putting her arms round the doctor kissed him most affectionately.

  Chapter Eight

  Sidonie’s love affair with Finnan was certainly made intriguing, indeed more fun, by the fact that she was away so much, her concerts constantly taking her to places as disparate both geographically and spiritually as Glasgow and Venice, to say nothing of various other ill-matched world cities. Yet, in a way this set-up, exciting though it was, had one great disadvantage. The couple never had time to be dull together.

  ‘One month,’ thought Sidonie, ‘I wish I could have just one month when I wasn’t off somewhere.’

  But her schedule was too full for such luxuries and all she could do was count her blessings, be glad that she was so much in demand and that she had such a marvellous life when she was at home.

  “Now, now, Sid bach,” Rod said, noticing her frown as she looked through the list of engagements he had just handed her. “This is going to be a good year for you. There’s no need to make a face about it.”

  “It’s just that I have so little time to myself.”

  “You never worried about that before.” Her agent’s expression changed and he looked sly. “Here, are you up to hanky pantry with that Irish boyo?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know perfectly well. Are you having an affair with the doctor?”

  “Yes I am,” Sidonie said defiantly. “And it’s wonderful. I haven’t been so happy for ages.”

  “Well don’t get too involved. You’ve spent years trying to get as far as you have. Don’t let another Nigel situation develop.”

  “It’s not another Nigel situation,” Sidonie answered wrathfully, “I can’t think of two men more unalike. Anyway, Finnan adores my music. He would never stand in my way.”

  “I hope not for your sake.”

  Sidonie had not replied, afraid of falling out with an agent of whom she was very fond. For in her heart she knew that Rod was only trying to protect her future, and that it took a considerable man to cope with a woman who had a highly successful career of her own.

  “Do you resent my giving so many concerts?” she had asked Finnan tentatively.

  “Only the fact that I can’t attend them all,” he had answered.

  But still Sidonie felt uncertain and considered how much easier things must have been in the time of her ghost, as she now thought of the dark-haired girl. Then women had had the time of their lives, liberated from the yoke of arranged marriages prevalent in earlier centuries, yet adored by their menfolk, who cherished and protected them.

  “No need for striving in those days,” Sidonie said to Catty Scarlatti. “It must have been sheer bliss.”

  “Though of course it would have not been possible to have a career,” Sidonie answered herself on the cat’s behalf. “So how would you have liked that?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” she said aloud, and went to sit in front of the mirror and stare at her reflection, trying to imagine living in another age when her
life would, through custom, have been entirely different.

  Sidonie had been born in hospital, in Swindon, which, of course, would have been impossible in the eighteenth century. Then, Jane Brooks, her mother, would have had a home confinement. The old house in Avebury, which had seen so many babies delivered into the world in its time, would have added yet another one to its list. So both her birth and education had been very different from those the dark-haired Beauty must have undergone. No home governess for Sidonie, no occasional study with a brother’s tutor. Instead Primary then Grammar School, and the usual piano lessons when she had been seven years old.

  ‘Those might have been the same,’ Sidonie thought. ‘I wonder if my ghost plays the harpsichord.’

  But she stopped thinking about supernatural events at this point, remembering instead Mrs Miriam Jenner, whose husband had died in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, so that she had been forced to continue teaching music after the war. Sidonie had been like a daughter to her and as the pupil’s talent had developed so had Mrs Jenner’s affection. It had been with her that Sidonie had gone to the house called Silbury Abbas where a collection of early instruments had been housed and had seen a harpsichord for the very first time.

  “Can I play one of those?” she had asked.

  And with the owner’s permission she had been allowed to do so, and Sidonie’s inexplicable love for the instrument had begun.

  “It makes me believe in reincarnation,” Miriam Jenner had said to Sidonie’s mother. “She came into the world with a gift for it, I’ll swear to that.”

  “Do you think she should go on?”

  “Oh, but she must! I have arranged for Dr Ralph Greville to hear her at Oxford. He is one of the foremost teachers in the country. I’m positive he will take her as a pupil.” Mrs Jenner had looked apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  It would have been too bad if they had, Sidonie recalled. She had started private lessons with Dr Greville on Saturdays and at eighteen had entered the Royal College of Music to do a three-year Performers’ Course.