by Karen Swan
She drifted through the house, feeling like an intruder. It wasn’t a building she’d ever been familiar with, partly because of its position, set apart from the rest of the estate on the ‘back’ drive with no especial views and far out of sight of the castle. Partly too because it had been inhabited by lodgers since she was a little girl – a childless older couple, Mr and Mrs Wheeler, who’d moved here after he’d retired from his architect’s practice in Limerick. They’d lived here till their deaths a few years back but they hadn’t ever been friendly towards the estate’s rather feral, wayward daughters, who were known for their pranks.
But that wasn’t what had really kept Willow and her sisters away: it was their father’s stories about the ghost that haunted here, rattling the doorknobs, he said, her skirts knocking over the fire irons as she drifted over the floors. Supposedly the ghost was Elizabeth Carr, the stepmother of the 15th Knight, otherwise known as Black Bess on account of her pure-black hair. Tradition said the 15th Knight had had the house built for her as punishment for the way she had treated him as a boy, and that when his father died and he inherited the title, the castle and all the lands, his revenge had been swift and sweet. Commissioning the building of the Dower House had been his first act upon becoming the Knight and it was built in the fashion of the day, Queen Anne style, with grey stone quoins, flush sash windows and a central triangular pediment set against the hipped roof. But, like Black Bess, its beauty was deceptive and only skin-deep, for beyond the stylish facade, the house was surprisingly small and mean. Most houses of this period boasted double-pile platforms, two rooms deep, but here was barely bigger inside than some of the estate cottages. The extravagant ceiling heights were a useless luxury and only served to highlight the meagre proportions of the rooms, rendering them higher than they were wide. As for the steep, narrow staircase, it would have been treacherous in long skirts and, indeed, it was how Black Bess had met her untimely end, two weeks short of the first anniversary of her husband’s death. Legend had it, according to her father, that as she fell, the last words to ever leave her lips were a curse upon her stepson and the house of Lorne.
Of course, it may have been a downgrade for those used to living with the proportions of a castle, but to the modern eye, the insults built into the walls of this house were slight. The smaller rooms were well suited for a couple or someone living here on their own and almost all the architectural features – windows and fireplaces – were original. If they did cut down some of the trees and tame the garden, redecorate the house . . . It could be a project, something to help occupy her mother as she adapted to widowhood—
‘Hello!’
The unexpected voice made Willow jump, her knees buckling with the fright, and she stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dark hall trepidatiously.
‘Willow, are you there?’ The voice sounded muffled coming through the thick wooden front door. ‘It’s me! Taigh!’
‘Jeesht, Taigh,’ she muttered, putting her hand to her chest to still her beating heart. She ran carefully down the stairs and opened the front door.
‘So the doorbell doesn’t work then?’ he grinned, staring back at her.
‘I don’t think much works here, to be honest. Sorry, were you standing there a while?’
‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with getting a bit of air.’
She noticed the tip of his nose was pink. He was wearing his paramedic’s uniform, his bag by his feet. ‘Quick, come in or you’ll catch your death. It’s freezing out there.’
‘Brrr, it’s freezing in here,’ he said, stepping into the flagstoned hallway. He noticed the dark fireplace. ‘Not got a fire going yet?’
‘It was my next job,’ she smiled, trying to hide her weariness. Going to bed and hiding under a blanket seemed the easier option. ‘What’s up?’
‘I came over to see if Pip was here? She’s not at home.’
‘Really?’ Willow frowned. ‘Are you sure? She left here about an hour ago and said she was going straight back. She was pretty done in.’
‘Well, she wasn’t answering if she was there, although the lights were on.’
‘Oh. That’s odd. Why d’you need her? Is it something I can help with?’
‘Sadly not. I just need to check up on her, listen to her chest again.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘I know – fun times. But I keep missing her. Every time I go over to the stables she’s not there and I can’t seem to catch up with her. I swear to God, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was deliberately avoiding me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she’s not,’ Willow said unconvincingly. ‘You know Pip – she’s just incapable of sitting still.’
‘That’s the thing – she really should be resting. I’m not sure she understands the seriousness of it – she had a close shave at the weekend and the body needs to recover from something like that; the mind too. She can’t be going around like nothing happened.’
Willow hesitated, because of course that was exactly what her wayward big sister had been doing. It had been business as usual for Pip as far as she’d been able to see. ‘Well, I guess it has been an unusual time for us all lately; there’s been so much going on it’s been hard to stop. But if it makes you feel any better, she seemed perfectly fine when I saw her earlier, and we were working for hours. It’s been mental, packing up the castle like this.’
‘Yeah, I saw your note on the door up there, saying you’d moved down here. It’s all happening really fast, isn’t it?’
‘Fast or slow, it’s still got to happen one way or the other.’ She gave a careless shrug but, in truth, every comment on the matter felt like an accusation – of haste, lack of thought, sentiment, attachment. It made her feel exposed.
He looked around the hallway interestedly. ‘I’ve not been down here before.’
‘Nor us really. It was rented out for all our childhoods. The lodgers weren’t particularly friendly.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Plus it’s haunted, of course. We wouldn’t come near the place.’
His eyes widened delightedly. ‘You’ve got a ghost?’
‘Oh yeah! Black Bess. Not a woman to be crossed, by all accounts. This is supposedly where she roams.’
He gave her a sceptical look. ‘And you’re going to be here on your own?’
‘Well, only for tonight. Mam’s supposed to be here too but she’s staying over with the Flanagans tonight. Anything to get out of the unpacking, I reckon.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘I don’t believe in ghosts any more, Taigh,’ she laughed.
He grinned. ‘But you do fairies, though?’
‘Of course!’
‘And unicorns?’
‘Ride them on the beach daily,’ she nodded.
‘Leprechauns?’
‘Was just talking to one.’
He laughed. ‘Knights in shining armour?’
She sucked in her teeth. ‘Oh, nah, sorry. Never seen one of those.’
‘I don’t believe it! The knight’s own daughter hasn’t seen a knight in shining armour?’
‘Knights’ daughters don’t need knights!’
‘Pah, what’s need got to do with it?’ he chuckled, picking up his bag. ‘You Lornes are hard women, so you are.’ He walked back to the door. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go, I’m on duty in twenty minutes. But tell that sister of yours I’m looking for her. If nothing else I just need to sign her off, that’s all. Will you tell her that for me?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll pop over to hers again tomorrow sometime.’
‘You’re a champ, Taigh. I’ll ring her now and let her know.’
She closed the door behind him and took out her phone, checking for mobile coverage here. She watched as one bar of mobile reception flickered on and off the screen. To her surprise she saw that she’d missed a call and had a new message, even though her phone hadn’t rung.
She listened to her voicemail.
‘Willow, it’s Connor.’
His voice felt like velvet against her ear. ‘I’ve got the scaffolders going over tomorrow to get the grid up for the roof. They’re keen to get the lorries in and as close to the building as possible before the removals trucks arrive so they’ll be with you early, around sevenish. Can you move any cars out the way before then? We don’t want to risk anything falling on them.’ There was a pause. ‘Okay . . . bye.’
She hung up and pressed the phone to her chest. Didn’t Taigh know? Knights didn’t wear shining armour these days.
Chapter Nineteen
Friday, 13 December
The wind blew in playful gusts, snatching the bed sheets away from Ottie’s grasping hands each time she reached for them, her rusty-blonde hair whirling around her head in vertical fronds. ‘Mmnnff,’ she spluttered, three wooden clothes pegs in her mouth as she grabbed the corner of a duvet cover and held on to it. She wrestled it into her body, hunching over and trying to fold it down before the wind caught hold again and sent it up like a sail into the blustery sky. Finally, with a groan of satisfaction, she pushed it down into the laundry basket and replaced the smooth rock on top, her laundry paperweight – no one ever said living by a beach was easy. The pillowcases and knickers were easier to catch and she piled the rest of the load into the basket before hoisting it under her arm and ploughing her way back into the house.
Safely inside again, she sagged against the door with a sigh.
‘Blowy out there today, then.’
She looked up – through her mass of tangled hair – to see Ben standing by the kitchen counter. He was leaning on his crutches and although still in his tracksuit (for he had no other clothes), he looked better than he had in days. His colour had returned and the pinched, pained look had left his face.
‘Good morning! You’re up.’
‘Thought it was about time.’ He looked surprisingly sheepish. ‘I can’t keep sleeping.’
‘On the contrary, it’s obviously what your body needed.’ She had brought through his meal trays to the bedroom for the past day and a half but though he had tried to rouse himself into consciousness each time she knocked and mumbled his thanks, he always immediately fell back asleep again and everything had been left untouched. Occasionally she heard him shuffle to the bathroom, faint groans coming through the walls as he grappled with the pain in his leg and his hampered mobility, but he hadn’t otherwise left the room.
‘I didn’t think the anaesthetic would hit me quite so hard,’ he frowned.
Ottie smiled as she walked over and set the laundry basket down on the small kitchen table. ‘Anaesthetic?’ she grinned. ‘You don’t think it had anything to do with the fact that you had also spent a sleepless night clinging to an exposed cliff in a storm, and before that, put your body through an ultramarathon?’
‘But I only ran thirty miles. I’d barely started.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Only thirty miles? It couldn’t be that,’ Ottie quipped, wrinkling her nose.
He arched an eyebrow. ‘. . . You’re laughing at me.’
Ottie pulled out one of the pillowcases and started smoothing it flat. ‘Yes, Mr Gilmore. I am.’
‘Hmm.’ His not-quite smile hovered over his lips again. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I’ll get it,’ she said, instantly dropping the laundry. But he stopped her with a hand.
‘No. I can manage. It’s time I make myself useful – even if it’s just boiling a kettle.’
‘But you don’t need to.’
‘Nor do you,’ he said, looking at her directly, before turning away again and beginning to hobble over to the kettle. ‘Just tell me where to look.’
‘Well . . . the coffee’s in the narrow cabinet to the right, there. And the cups are in the wall cupboard on the left.’
It was awkward for him. The crutches meant he needed both hands and couldn’t walk with the kettle once he’d filled it, having to set it down ahead of himself on the counter, then pick up his crutches to draw level with it, only to set it forwards again.
‘Please let me,’ she said, watching with a grimace. It was actually painful to watch.
‘No.’ He flashed a tight smile her way. ‘Thank you.’
Biting her lip and deciding it was better not to watch, she picked up the laundry and began folding again. ‘You seem to be moving better.’
‘Yes. The swelling’s beginning to go down a bit now. I’m going to start some of the physio exercises today.’ He had reached the kettle now and set it down on its boiling base triumphantly.
‘Really? It’s not too soon?’
He reached for the cups, which were thankfully positioned dead ahead. No walking required. ‘The consultant said to start as soon I felt up to it. And the sooner I start getting back to normal, the sooner I can get on that plane and be out of your way.’
‘It’s really not a problem,’ she smiled.
‘I can’t believe you’re not desperate to have your bed back.’ He glanced over at the sofa, pristinely made up with plumped cushions and the throw smoothed of any wrinkles. No one would ever guess it was doubling as a bed.
‘It’s actually surprisingly comfortable,’ she lied, absently folding up her knickers before realizing what she was holding and stuffing them back in the basket again.
His gaze flickered away discreetly too. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured again, picking up his crutches and making his way over to the fridge. Ottie blanched at the thought of the odyssey that would be involved in getting the milk across the kitchen again, but she didn’t dare intervene. He’d made it clear he wanted his independence, that he wanted to give back in some way. She had to let him do that.
‘You don’t have any pictures on the walls,’ he said, reaching into the fridge for the milk. It was said more as a statement than a question.
‘No.’ She stared at the double-height white walls. Most people didn’t notice – their eye always drawn to the ever-changing view outside – but they did look very bare. She glanced at him, and down again. He was astute. An observer. ‘. . . I guess I’m waiting for the perfect picture.’
‘What kind of thing are you looking for?’
She shrugged, walking over to the narrow coat cupboard by the front door and pulling out the ironing board. ‘I don’t know,’ she said vaguely, even though she did know. She knew exactly what she wanted to put there. She gave a tight smile. ‘I figure I’ll know it when I see it. It’s hard to find anything that can compete with that view, that’s the problem.’
‘It is a hell of a view,’ he agreed.
A knock at the door made them both look up. ‘Oh. That’ll be one of my sisters, no doubt,’ she said, pulling the board up to full height, the frame ratcheting through the notches. ‘I apologize in advance for anything offensive or insulting they might say or do. Especially Pip.’
He looked bemused. The knock came again.
‘Ugh, that’s definitely Pip. She never brings her keys,’ she muttered, walking over the floor in her socks. ‘Pip—’ she moaned, opening the door.
‘Jeesht, I always forget how beautiful y’are—’
‘Mr Flanagan,’ she said primly, quickly stepping back as Bertie’s arms reached for her, her heart suddenly sky-rocketing in panic, surprise.
Bertie stalled for a moment, his arms held out in mid-air like he’d just missed catching a ball, as he tried to get up to speed with the situation.
‘I was just telling Mr Gilmore I thought you must be Pip forgetting her keys again.’
‘Mr Gil –?’ Bertie started quizzically, straightening up and entering the cottage. ‘Mr Gilmore! Ben! You’re here!’ The happy surprise in his voice didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I wondered where you’d gone. The hospital told me you’d been discharged when I rang but they couldn’t tell me where you were staying, of course. I just assumed you’d have gone back to the States.’
Ben nodded. ‘Ottie very kindly offered a roof above my head while I get through this phase. I can’t fly for a couple of weeks.’
‘A cou
ple of weeks,’ Bertie repeated, and Ottie knew that was his ploy for buying time, trying to think fast and assess the situation.
‘Thrombosis risk,’ Ottie said shortly, shutting the door behind him. Now that the shock of finding him on her doorstep was abating, her anger with him was growing. They hadn’t spoken in days – not since Sunday night, in the panic to find Ben. He would have known about her house guest if he’d bothered to reply to her texts; she had even dared a call on his home line last night and to her utter astonishment – and horror – Shula had picked up and put her on to her own mother who was supposedly staying there!
She knew Bertie had to have seen her messages. They always kept communications simple – no hidden and spare phones; she was simply saved in his Contacts as Dave Bridges, Butcher. Bertie supplied Dave his pheasants, so she was hiding in plain sight if Shula ever happened to check his messages. ‘Ben was just making a coffee. Would you like one?’ she asked snappishly.
‘Well, I don’t want to intrude.’
‘Intrude on what?’ She was intrigued to see how uncomfortable he looked. ‘We’re just chatting.’ He picked up the edge in her voice and she saw the retraction in his eyes. He knew he was in trouble.
‘That would be great, then. Black, no sugar.’
Ottie felt a ripple of relief that it at least simplified the job for Ben – no extra trips to the fridge. He made the drinks quickly, and Bertie walked over to take his from him. ‘So how are you getting on? It looks like you’re moving about well.’
‘Beginning to,’ Ben nodded.
‘Sleeping all right?’
‘Too much, actually. I’m trying to cut back.’
‘Nonsense. That’s the body’s defence and repair mechanism,’ Bertie said assuredly. ‘Listen to what your body’s telling you to do.’
Ben’s eyes flickered her way briefly. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Well, on that note, I’m going to take this into my room. My leg’s beginning to throb. I need to elevate it again.’