The Winter Ghosts

by Kate Mosse

  ‘Il n’y a personne pour vous aider, monsieur.’

  I smiled. ‘In which case, tomorrow it is.’

  And I was reassured. No doubt, here was the reason for the strange, hushed silence of the village, for all the shops being closed, for the queer burning flambeaux in the square.

  Beckoning for me to follow, Madame Galy clattered down the corridor. Monsieur Galy shut the front door and bolted it behind us. When I glanced back over my shoulder, he was still standing there frowning, his arms hanging loose by his sides. He seemed unhappy about the appearance of an unexpected guest, but I wasn’t going to let it bother me. I was here. Here I would stay.

  There was a round switch for an electric light on the wall, but no bulbs in the ceiling fittings. Instead, the passage was lit by oil lamps, their small flames magnified by curved glass shades.

  ‘You have no power?’

  ‘The supply is not reliable, especially in winter. It comes and goes.’

  ‘But there is hot water?’ I asked. Now I was out of the cold, I was able to admit how utterly done in I was. My thighs and calves ached from my trek down into the village and I was chilled right through. More than anything, I wanted a long, warm bath.

  ‘Of course. We have an oil heater for that.’

  We continued down the long corridor. I glanced into rooms where the doors stood open. All were empty. There were no sounds of conversation, of servants going about their duties.

  ‘Do you have many other guests?’

  ‘Not at present.’

  I waited for her to elaborate, but she did not, and despite my curiosity, I did not press the point.

  Madame Galy stopped in front of a high wooden desk at the foot of the stairs. I caught the smell of beeswax polish, a sharp reminder of the back stairs leading up to my childhood attic nursery that were so dangerous for boys in stockinged feet.

  ‘S’il vous plaît.’

  She pushed an ancient register towards me. Leather binding, heavy cream paper with narrow blue feint lines. I glanced at the names above mine and saw that the last entries were in September. Had there been no one since then? I signed my name all the same. Formalities accomplished, Madame Galy chose a large, old-fashioned brass key from a row of six hooks on the wall, then took a lighted candle from the counter.

  ‘Par ici,’ she said.

  Chez les Galy

  I followed Madame Galy up the tiled staircase, twice catching the toes of my boots on the timber nose of the treads.

  On the first landing, she held up the candle to illuminate a second flight of steps, and we stumbled on in Indian file, until she stopped in front of a panelled door and unlocked it.

  ‘I will have a fire made up.’

  The room was bitterly cold, though it was clean and serviceable, with the same lingering smell of polish and dust as downstairs.

  While Madame Galy lit the oil lamps from the candle, I looked around. A small writing table and cane-seated chair stood adjacent to the door. Straight ahead, two tall windows, floor to ceiling, filled one side of the room. Against the left-hand wall was an old-fashioned bed on wooden pallets. Brocade curtains, of the kind my grandmother used to have, sagged round the bed on brass rings. I tried the mattress with my hand. It was uneven and hard, with a hint of damp from lack of use, but it would do me well enough.

  On the opposite side of the room was a heavy chest of drawers, a lace runner draped across the top, on which stood a large white china bowl and wash jug. Above it hung a gilt-framed mirror, its bevelled surface scratched around the sides.

  The cut on my cheek had started to sting. I put my fingers up to the wound and felt the blood had congealed and hardened. I asked if I might have some ointment.

  ‘The smash,’ I said, feeling the need to explain. ‘Bumped my head on the dashboard.’

  ‘I will bring something up for it.’

  ‘It’s good of you. There is one more thing. I need to send a telegram to my friends in Ax-les-Thermes. ’

  ‘We have no telegraph office in Nulle, monsieur.’

  ‘Somewhere closer by, then? Is there perhaps someone with a telephone?’

  Madame Galy shook her head. ‘In Tarascon, of course, but such conveniences have not yet come to the valley.’ She pointed at the table. ‘If you care to write a letter, I will send a boy to Ax in the morning. ’

  ‘Ax is closer?’

  ‘A little, yes.’

  It still seemed an awfully long way to go, but if it was the only option, then so be it.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, then shivered. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance, but I was obliged to abandon my suitcase. In the car. So, if you had something I could borrow for the night, I’d be grateful.’

  Madame Galy nodded. ‘I will find something for you to wear while your clothes are drying.’ She paused. ‘Should you wish to join us, monsieur, the celebration for la fête de Saint-Etienne will begin at ten o’clock. You would be most welcome.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, madame, but I would hate to intrude.’ Given the day I’d had, I thought it unlikely I’d even still be awake at ten o’clock.

  ‘You would not be intruding, not at all.’

  Madame Galy was smiling at me now and, despite my tiredness and aching bones, I found myself warming to her. Her enthusiasm was engaging.

  ‘It is the one night the village comes together,’ she continued, as if she were reciting from a brochure issued by the local tourist office. ‘It is the custom to wear traditional dress - weavers, carders, soldiers, the good men even - whatever a person chooses.’

  ‘The good men?’ Les bons hommes. I’d heard the phrase before, but I couldn’t recall where or when.

  ‘It is the night we remember old friends and new. Those that are amongst us still, those that have gone.’ Her voice trembled a little. ‘Those who were lost.’

  ‘I see.’

  This was a change from most of the other places I had visited, where I’d found a resolute determination to forget the recent past and move on. That Nulle honoured its history and clung to its traditions, even if for only one night a year, appealed to me.

  ‘You say la fête begins at ten o’clock?’

  ‘Ten o’clock, monsieur, in the Ostal. It is not easy to find, since many of the streets are unnamed in the oldest quartier and several alleyways are now dead ends. But I could provide you with a map, should you decide to join us.’

  I had been looking forward to having something to eat and then the chance to turn in early. I was not at my best in strange company, too often shy or tongue-tied. But, against the odds, I found myself attracted by the idea of attending.

  ‘You are quite sure I would not be imposing?’

  She shook her head. ‘You would be most welcome. ’ She paused. ‘Besides, I regret there will be no hot food here this evening. We are all commandeered to help at the Ostal from six o’clock.’

  I laughed. ‘That settles it. I shall certainly accept the invitation. And your offer of a map, too.’

  She smoothed her hands on her apron and beamed at me, evidently pleased things were settled, and at that moment reminded me of no one so much as the smiling, maternal face of Mrs Bun the Baker’s wife in my old card deck of Happy Families.

  ‘And will Monsieur Galy be attending?’

  The smile slipped from her face. ‘The night air does not agree with him,’ she said quietly. ‘The cold gets into his bones.’

  She placed the key on the table and, reverting to her brisk, matter-of-fact voice, added, ‘The bathroom is at the end of the corridor on the right-hand side. I will draw a bath for you, then see to a fire and your clothes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If there is nothing more you need?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  She nodded. ‘Alors, à ce soir.’

  Once she had gone, I removed my boots and damp socks, which were starting to itch, then emptied the contents of my pockets on top of the chest of drawers. My keys, my cigarette case and matches, my pock
et book. Then I sat down at the desk. There were several sheets of notepaper, as well as a rather antiquated pen with a scratchy nib. The inkwell, surprisingly, was full. The paper was not headed, so I cast my eyes around for some official notice that might reveal the actual address of the boarding house. There was a sign pinned to the back of the door about what guests should or should not do in case of an emergency or a fire, but nothing more. In the end, I simply put c/o M & MME GALY, LA PLACE DE L’ÉGLISE, NULLE, ARIÈGE, and left it at that. I had no doubt any reply would find me easily enough.

  I scribbled a few lines to my friends, saying I’d be delighted to join them, if they’d still have me, and that, since I had no idea how long it would take to repair my motor car, I would be in touch again in a day or two to let them know when to expect me.

  There was no blotting paper, so I waved the sheet about and blew on the ink until it was dry. There were no envelopes, either, so I folded the letter over on itself three times, printed the address of my friends’ hotel in Ax-les-Thermes on the outside and left it on the table to take down later.

  I stripped down to my undergarments. Despite my exhaustion, I was in good spirits. As I took the clean towel from the end of the bed and went in search of the bathroom, I realised I was whistling.

  The Man in the Mirror

  When I got back to my room after a long, hot soak in the bath, a fire was burning in the grate, releasing an aroma of pine resin into the room. The smell snapped at my heart strings, taking me back to Sussex winters when I was a boy, with George home from school for the holidays.

  Madame Galy had brought a brass-handled oil lamp with a round wick burner and bulging glass chimney, and set it on the table. A tray with a glass and heavy-bottomed bottle had also appeared on the chest of drawers.

  It was all very congenial, snug.

  My trousers were draped over a wooden clothes horse set at an angle in front of the fire. I rubbed the heavy tweed between my fingers. Still damp, but well on the way to being wearable. My slipover was on a lower rung, the arms dangling down, and my socks were drying on the hearth, the toes, where the wool was thickest, pointing towards the flames. Of my overcoat, cap and boots there was no sign, nor of my shirt. It occurred to me that Madame Galy was soaking it to try to shift the blood on the collar.

  She had been as good as her word and found clothes for me to borrow. Rather, a costume. I picked up the tunic of rough cotton from the bed, and smiled. The sleeves only reached the elbow, there was no collar and there were ties at the neck in place of buttons. It was much like the sort of thing I’d once worn for a particularly dreadful school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  I’d been to a couple of costume parties in London in the days after the War had ended and before my nerves got the better of me. I had enjoyed them. I liked the anonymity of disguise, for a few hours pretending to be a man of action from history or the pages of a novel. A Shackleton or a Quatermain.

  I was still stiff from the accident, so eased the tunic carefully over my shoulders, then stepped back to take a look at myself in the mirror. Dressed as a peasant with my hair sticking up as nature intended, I was hardly Mr Rider Haggard’s hero. But I was pleased enough.

  I looked closer and felt something shift inside me, for, despite the cracks and breaks on the bevelled surface, staring back at me from the mirror was a reflection I had not thought to see again. Myself. Or, rather, the person I might have been had not grief marked me. The lines of loss, of illness, were still there. I was too pale and thin, that was undeniable, and my green eyes were perhaps a little too bright. But the features were familiar. My old self was making its way to the surface. Freddie Watson, younger son of George and Anne Watson, Crossways Lodge, Lavant, Sussex.

  I looked a while longer, happy in my own company, until my bare feet started to ache with cold. I hurried to finish dressing. Madame Galy had left no trousers to match the tunic, so I presumed she intended me to wear my own. The turn-ups were still a little damp, but they’d do. I slipped them on, buttoned the fly, then thumped down on the bumpy mattress to investigate the footwear that had been left in place of my boots.

  I examined them in the light cast by the oil lamp. They, too, had a theatrical look. Soft leather boots with no heels or fastenings. They set my memories racing once more. A family outing one Christmas when Mother took George and me to see Peter Pan at the Lyric Theatre. The afternoon stuck in my mind because it was rare for her to accompany us. We ate jellies in the interval and Mother, her peaches-and-cream complexion pretty in the dimmed light of the theatre, scrutinised the audience and the latest fashions. For some months afterwards, George and I adopted Pan’s catchphrase of how to die would be an ‘awfully big adventure’ and thought ourselves amusing.

  I looked down at the boots in my hand. They were precisely the kind of things the boy playing Peter had worn. I could hear George in my ear, joshing me for even contemplating putting on such footwear.

  ‘A step too far, old chap, a step too far,’ he’d have said. I could hear the dry humour, the inflection of his voice. His words poking me in the ribs.

  ‘A step too far, not bad,’ I said. ‘Not bad at all.’

  I felt the smile slip. The truth of it was that these words belonged to me, not George. I so wanted to hear him talking to me in that low, wry way of his, the distinctive fall at the end of every sentence, that charming, cracked tone partway between boredom and brilliance. But however hard I tried to keep my end of the bargain, the conversation was always one-sided.

  Was it in that little room in Nulle that the realisation struck me? How I’d fallen into the habit of ascribing every witty, clever aphorism to George? How I’d stepped out of my own life and into the wings, yielding centre-stage to him? Or was it something I already knew but had not wanted to acknowledge?

  But I do know that, as I let the leather costume boots drop from my hand to the floor, I was aware of something slipping away from me. Of something being lost.

  ‘An awfully big adventure,’ I muttered.

  I sat for a moment longer, then strode over to the chest of drawers and poured myself two fingers from the bottle. It was a thick, red liqueur, and I swallowed it down in one gulp. A little sweet for my taste, it nonetheless hit the back of my throat with a kick. Heat flooded my chest. I poured another double measure. Again, I downed it in one. The alcohol knocked the edge off things. I was reluctant now to leave the warm cocoon of the room. Taking a cigarette from my case, I tapped the tobacco tight and paced the room as I smoked, this time enjoying the texture of the cold wood beneath my bare feet. Thinking about the day, thinking about things.

  I flicked the end of the cigarette into the fire, then crouched down to see how my socks were doing. The movement set the room spinning.

  ‘Food,’ I muttered. ‘I need food.’

  They were dry, though stiff as a board, and I rubbed and stretched at the wool before pulling them on. The boots were tight, and looked rather peculiar matched with tweed trousers, but not otherwise too bad a fit.

  I was ready. I gathered up my bits and pieces from the chest of drawers, and took the hand-drawn map Madame Galy had left as promised. Then, with a last look around the room, I picked up the letter and went out into the cold corridor.

  There was no one downstairs, though the oil lamps were burning. I put the letter in plain view on the high reception counter then, leaning across it, I called into the gloom of the back rooms beyond.

  ‘Monsieur Galy? Je m’en vais.’

  There was no answer. As I drew back, I saw I had left the imprint of my hands on the polished wood. The problem was I had not thought to ask how I should get back in to the boarding house later. Would I need a latchkey? Should I ring the bell or would the door be unlocked?

  ‘Monsieur Galy, I’m off now,’ I called again.

  There was still no response. I hesitated, then slipped round behind the desk and replaced the room key on its hook so he would see that I had gone.

  An antique tall case
-clock with a mahogany surround stood in the alcove beneath the sweep of the stairs. I looked up at the mottled, ivory-coloured face, at the slim Roman numerals and delicate black hands. There was a whirring of the mechanism inside the case, then a high-pitched carillon started to chime.

  I knew I’d taken my time but, even so, I was surprised that it was ten o’clock already. In the sanatorium, sedated by my physicians, whole days had passed in the blinking of an eye. On other occasions, blunted by the medicines they force-fed me morning and night, the world seemed to limp to a standstill. Even so, had seven whole hours really gone by since first I’d arrived at the boarding house? No wonder I was hungry.

  My overcoat was hanging on a hook on the wall beside the front entrance. I shrugged myself into it, put on my cap, then I pulled open the heavy door and stepped out into the night.

  La Fête de Saint-Etienne

  The place de l’Église was deserted. Already there was a hard frost and the ground beneath my feet glistened white. It was very still and very pretty, like glitter on a Christmas card. The flambeaux were burning fiercely.

  Holding Madame Galy’s map in my hand, I headed diagonally across the square towards the church and the maze of tiny streets that made up the oldest quartier of the village where she had indicated the Ostal would be found.

  I walked past the plane trees, then down a narrow and nondescript alleyway by the side of the church. The cold pinched at my cheeks and my hands, so I walked quickly. In the few moments it had taken me to cross the square, a low mountain mist had descended, shrouding everything in a shifting, diaphanous whiteness. It curled around the buildings and the street corners.