The sound of such destruction woke Flora from her medicated slumber.
“Xanthe? Is that you? What’s happening down there?”
“It’s OK, Mum,” she called up to her as cheerfully as she could. “I dropped one of the mirrors, don’t worry.”
“Mirrors? What are you doing?… Oh, is Theo there? Look at the time, for heaven’s sake. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
Xanthe could hear her mother get out of bed and move to the top of the stairs with the familiar clunk and rattle of her crutches accompanying her uneven steps. Xanthe hurried to pick up the broken frame and what was left of the mirror, repositioning the remnants behind some of the others, not wishing Flora to see that it was one of the best pieces that had been broken beyond repair. Her hands were shaking as her mind struggled to take in the enormity of what the ghost had threatened.
“I’d almost forgotten he was coming,” Flora called down. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long. Have you offered him a cup of tea? I’ll get dressed.”
Xanthe hurried up the stairs to her mother. “Yes, it was Theo. Yes, I offered him a cup of tea. And don’t hurry to get dressed; he’s gone.”
“What?”
“He just left. Without the mirrors.”
“Without them?” Flora ran a hand through her disheveled hair in exasperation. “I know some are a bit ordinary, but I thought there were enough there to tempt him. I don’t understand why he didn’t want them.”
“He did.” Xanthe took a breath. “Look, why don’t you go back to bed. I’ll bring you a cup of tea and tell you what happened.”
She looked at her daughter closely. Looked at her and saw that she had something to tell her she was not going to meet with her favor. “I don’t want tea. I want an explanation.”
“Mum, I couldn’t let him have them all. Not like that. We’d be practically giving them away.”
“No, we’d be selling them. Which is what we are here to do, in case you’d forgotten.”
“I know. It’ll be OK, I’ll find another way.”
“Such as?”
Xanthe cast about for a solution. “Look, how about we put some of the best ones on the internet. On eBay. Fix a reasonable reserve and short selling time. That way we can generate some cash without just throwing out all the others.”
Flora said nothing for a moment, and then her shoulders slumped, not in defeat, but relief. “I’m sorry, love. I should have talked to you about Theo. I don’t know why I didn’t. You would have come up with a better idea. Sometimes I … I forget to let you make some of the decisions. Silly of me.”
Xanthe put her hand on her mother’s arm. “Come on, I’m starving, and I bet you are, too. I’ll make us both a fry up. There’s still eggs and stuff. We’ll work something out.”
Flora sighed. “You know, there are times I’m reluctant to part with things, too. Things I’d really like to keep.”
Xanthe suddenly saw how frail her mother was, saw anew how vulnerable she was. Instinctively she threw her arms around her and pulled her close, fighting back tears. “I love you, Mum.”
“Hey!” Flora laughed, returning the hug as best she could while propping herself up with one crutch. “What’s all this about?” When Xanthe pulled back, her mother studied her face. “Are you OK?”
Xanthe nodded. “Just … well, you know how Theo can be.”
“Oh, don’t let that bumptious wally get to you. Come on,” she said, turning for the door, “I was promised a decent breakfast.”
Xanthe almost preferred it when her mother was cross. Her being so reasonable made her feel worse. And love her more. Which made her feel yet more terrified at the thought of what the ghost might be prepared to do. There was so much to contend with. Theo had come with money burning a whole in his silk-lined velvet pocket and Xanthe had sent him away, leaving them in as much financial trouble as they had been before. Somehow she was going to have to find a way to make some money as quickly as possible, and at that moment, beyond the uncertain business of selling things on the internet, she had no idea how she was going to do it. Nor could she bring her thoughts to bear on the matter properly, not while the face of Margaret Merton swam before her mind’s eye, her threat real and dangerous. The notion of going back to the seventeenth century again scared her, but not as much as the thought of what the ghost might do to Flora if she did not go. Could she, would she really do her mother harm? She had proved herself capable. She was desperate. She had nothing to lose. It was a dangerous combination, and Xanthe doubted, at that moment, that she had an answer for it.
In the kitchen she fetched eggs from the fridge while her mother put a pan on the stove.
“Mum, sit. I’ll do it,” she told her.
“Don’t fuss, I’m not an invalid yet.”
“Nobody thinks that, least of all me. It’s my turn, that’s all. And you had a bad night.”
“All right, if you insist, though mind you don’t break the yolks. I like mine sunny-side up, not an apology for an omelette. And right after breakfast I want to get on with painting some of those drawers and cupboards. They’re going to take a couple of coats. That chalk paint is slow to dry.” She prattled on, settling herself at the little table, shoving yet another packing box out of the way, but Xanthe was not listening to her. She was watching the shadowy figure that had just appeared to stand behind her mother’s chair. Flora looked up. “Are you going to do something with that spatula or just stand there waving it at me?” she asked.
Xanthe dropped her gaze and tried to attend to the cooking. Was Mistress Merton going to be everywhere now until Xanthe agreed to do what she wanted? It was terrifying, the way she was hovering so close to her mother. Her message was obvious. The threat was real. “Sorry,” Xanthe mumbled. “Wasn’t concentrating.”
“Clearly. Oh, if you go out, can you get some ink for the computer? I want to print out fliers for the opening day. Xanthe?”
She made herself turn around again. The ghost had gone. She could not stop herself letting out a loud sigh of relief.
Flora frowned at her daughter. “Did you get any sleep at all last night? You look dreadful.”
“I love you too, Mum.”
“Sorry, love, but you need your sleep. Can’t have you getting poorly, can we?”
Xanthe set plates and cutlery on the table.
“I’m fine, don’t fuss now.”
“What’s that smell?”
“What?”
They both sniffed the air. Flora eyed the rubbish bin suspiciously. Xanthe took a deeper breath, the smell suddenly growing strong enough to make her gag.
“Gas!” Xanthe shouted, dashing over to the oven. Beneath the frying pan the gas was pouring out, but the flame had been extinguished.
“That’s all we need,” Flora noted, “a faulty cooker. Are we going to be gassed in our sleep? For heaven’s sake, we can’t afford a gas engineer or a new cooker.”
“It’s OK, Mum. The flame just got blown out. Must be a draft in here,” Xanthe assured her, relighting the gas, knowing in her heart that there was no draft. Knowing it as a certainty, as from the corner of her eye she glimpsed the form of Margaret Merton flitting from the room.
Flora sighed. “I do worry that this old house will turn out to be a money pit.”
“’Course it won’t. Now, if you want these eggs perfect, better let me get on with it, OK?” Xanthe said, trying to sound as if there was nothing in the world bothering her beyond breakfast, while in truth her heart was pounding and her mind was rebelling against the realization that the only way to keep her mother safe might just be for her to step back into the blind house once more, to step back in time, and to help Alice. Only this time would be different. This time she could not return without saving the girl. If she did, her own mother would be the one to pay the price.
10
After breakfast, Xanthe helped Flora into her workroom and left her to set to work on a small chest of drawers that needed sanding and painting. In the end t
hey had agreed Xanthe would put half a dozen of the best mirrors on eBay, in an attempt to sell them at better prices. She also agreed to go out and purchase the ink. That at least felt like a sensible step. She had to decide what to do about Margaret Merton’s threat, and somehow dealing with the smaller problems was giving her head a chance to work through the possible options. They were worryingly few. By the time she came to leave the shop and go out she realized she was seriously contemplating returning to the past, and the thought made her feel ill. Grabbing the books Harley had lent her, she decided to call in at The Feathers first, so that she might have the opportunity to talk to him before the pub got busy.
Outside something of a heatwave had taken hold of the town. It was another market day, and the stalls were set out down the center of the broad street, their striped awnings and baskets of flowers gleaming in the late-summer sunshine. Everywhere people were going about their normal lives, doing normal, everyday things, which seemed so at odds with Xanthe’s experiences of the previous night. The contrast between the world’s workaday activity, her own problems with money, her mother’s poor health, her time traveling, and being haunted by a desperate ghost made her feel dizzy. Made her feel disconnected from the solid, sensible, non–time-traveling folk of Marlborough. Made her feel more than a little bit as if she were losing her mind.
The Feathers was quiet, with only a few tourists partaking of a brunch-time drink or coffee. Annie directed her to the cellar where she found Harley changing barrels. The subterranean room was pleasantly cool, but even so he looked puffed and hot as he shifted the new barrels of beer into place.
“Heavy work?” Xanthe asked, sitting on the bottom stair, the books on her lap.
“Aye. Annie reckons it’s cheaper than sending me to the gym,” he said, pausing to rub his aching back for a moment. “To be honest with you, I’m hiding down here. My wife’s not a woman to cross.”
“And you’ve crossed her?”
“Not me, but I’m the only one she can yell at. It’s the singer we had booked for Friday night. The lass has let us down. No way we can find another band at such short notice.”
“Oh. That’s a shame.”
He looked at her, bushy brows raised. “Could you maybe persuade Annie to see it that way? Right now she seems to think it’s a catastrophe of major proportions that may see us both destitute and on the street at the very least.”
“Will it damage takings that much?”
“For the night it will.” He was about to resume his struggle with the beer kegs when a thought struck him. “I seem to remember your mother saying you’re something of a singer yourself, hen. Is that right?”
“Oh, I’m a bit rusty,” she said.
“I’ll take rusty.”
“I don’t have a set prepared. Or a band.” She felt a strange amalgamation of panic and excitement at the thought of performing again. There was a part of her that wanted to, though it might have been motivated more by the need for money than by any sort of creative urge. Whatever it was, Harley spotted the glimmer of a possible yes and turned to face her squarely.
“I’ll be straight with you, hen, we’re in a fix. Have you some backing tapes, maybe?”
“Yes, but…”
“Well there ye are then! Tell you what, I’ll pay double, seeing as it’s short notice. And if the drinkers like you, I’ll give you a regular spot. Say once a month. How about it?”
She thought about how she owed it to her mother to do her bit financially. And if she was being completely honest with herself, she also thought about how it might feel to sing again. Perhaps it was time. Time to move on from Marcus and her own messy past. She looked at the books in her lap. Harley had helped her, and there was a good chance she would need more of his knowledge before she was rid of Margaret Merton. She looked up at him and mustered a smile.
“You haven’t even heard me sing,” she warned.
“I trust you.”
“And I can choose, can sing whatever I like?”
“You can sing the national anthem on a loop if that’s what’ll get you behind that microphone.”
A thought, a tentative glimpse of an idea, was forming in her mind, and at once she knew it could work.
“OK, I’ll do it,” she told him.
“Bloody marvelous!” he cried.
“On two conditions,” she said, handing him back his books.
“Name them.”
“Double pay, in cash, on the night, like you promise. And do you by any chance have anything in your stash of historical books about popular seventeenth-century folk songs?”
* * *
She spent the rest of the day working in the shop, putting up new shelves, helping Flora with repairs to some of the stock, and in general trying her utmost to prove to her mother that all would be well. She found it impossible to shake off the impression that her every move was being watched. Though she could not see Mistress Merton, she frequently felt her presence, and was forever on her guard in case the tormented creature should give a further demonstration of her dangerous capabilities. She did her best to keep her mother’s mood up, and, in truth, what cheered Flora most was the news that she had agreed to sing at the pub. She visibly brightened at the thought of her daughter performing again, saying it was precisely the tonic she needed. She still looked tired, her face strained, but she said the pain was easing, and her movements were less stiff, less labored. Xanthe was eventually able to persuade her she needed a rest and to settle her in front of the computer to design and print out the fliers. She then took a deep breath and told the lie she had concocted to explain why she would be absent for a few days.
“You remember my friend Eva? In Milton Keynes?” she asked.
“The one with the whippet and the unsuitable boyfriend?”
“That’s the one. Well, he’s left her.”
“The whippet or the boyfriend?”
Xanthe made a face. “She’s heartbroken, really upset. To be honest, I’m worried about her. She’s on antidepressants as it is and really doesn’t do well in a crisis.”
“Poor girl.”
“Thing is, I want to go and support her, spend a couple of days. There’s no one else, and I don’t think she should be on her own right now.” Her stomach churned. Such blatant lying to her mother was completely at odds with the relationship they had. The alternative, however—revealing her need to travel through time to try to prevent a miscarriage of justice and satisfy a frightening ghost—was not an alternative at all.
“It’s not ideal timing for us, is it?” Flora pointed out with typical British understatement. It was the most awful timing, and they both knew it.
“It’d only be for a couple of days, tops,” Xanthe promised. “I can show you what I’ve done to sell the mirrors online, so it shouldn’t be too time consuming for you to keep an eye on them. The shop decorating is pretty much done, and I’ll be back in plenty of time for us to set out all the new stock and finish preparing for the grand opening.”
“When would you go?”
“I thought Saturday.” She paused, studying her mother’s face for a betrayal of panic or genuine worry, but Flora was by nature stoic, and even Xanthe was unable to discern her thoughts when she did not wish to reveal them. “But, only if you’re OK with it,” she added. “I mean, only if you think you’ll be OK. After last night…”
“Last night was a blip. You know flare-ups like that don’t last. I’m fine now.”
When Xanthe said nothing more, Flora gave her one of her stern, mother-knows-best looks.
“Xanthe, you’ve been stuck with me for weeks, what with packing up in London, moving here, getting stuff sorted in the shop. And you’re right, we’re nearly ready for the big day. You should go. Might do you good. Just because I eat, breathe, and live antiques doesn’t mean that you want to.” She smiled. “And you’re singing tomorrow night. You’ll have something to celebrate with Eva. Take her mind off things.”
Xanthe gave her a hug and
went back downstairs, trying not to let the fact that she had been so understanding make her feel even worse about lying. She moved one of the remaining boxes from the center of the shop and as she did so she spotted a familiar pattern on a piece of china. Digging into the wrapping, she unearthed the Minton sugar bowl from the set Gerri had bought. The fresh green of the Lily of the Valley flowers was beautifully painted along the tiny handles of the bowl. The china was so fine when she held it up to the light, it appeared translucent. She knew it would look even prettier filled with golden sugar crystals. Peering out of the window she could see Gerri bustling about in her tea shop opposite.
“I know where you belong,” she said to the sugar bowl, folding the wrapping paper around it once more. Opening the door as quietly as she could so as not to disturb Flora, she stepped outside and crossed the narrow cobbled street. Gerri saw her approaching.
“Hello! Come for a cuppa?” Gerri asked, loading a tray of tea things from the nearest table which was nestled against the ivy that scrabbled over the building. She expertly balanced the tray on one arm, wiping the table with a cloth, her 1940s dress with full skirt swirling as she moved, not a victory roll of hair out of place. Even the hectic pace of work in the tea shop had failed to impact on her perfectly applied bright-red lipstick.
“Wish I could stop, but this is a flying visit,” Xanthe told her, then held up the package. “I’ve got something for you.”
“Ooh! Come inside.”
Xanthe followed Gerri in through the bunting-strewn doorway. The interior of the tea room was delightful, and it was evident Gerri had an eye for period detail. The theme was authentically 1940s, very British, with gingham curtains and floral china, alongside enamel signs advertising soap and tea and clothes specific to the time. It was only a small area, yet Gerri had successfully placed five tables in it, all with red-and-white tablecloths sporting jam jars full of flowers, with thickly cushioned, white-painted chairs. Most were occupied, with people tucking into slices of sticky lemon drizzle cake or crumbly scones with jam and cream. Xanthe felt hungry just watching them.
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