Gilbert greeted Paul cheerfully, and they chatted about the band, and the weather. Gilbert said, “Wasn’t expecting to see you here again.”
“Oh well, it was good last time, and there’s not much in the way of dancing near me. It’s only about half an hour on the tube, nothing really.” That was only half the journey, but he didn’t want it to sound as if he’d made an enormous effort.
“Ah,” said Gilbert, “that’s good. Maybe you’ll get into the habit.”
Paul smiled; “Maybe I shall.”
“You’re on your own, are you?”
“What? Yes, I came on my own.”
“No, I mean, you live on your own? You’re not married?”
“Er, no.” Paul was a bit taken aback. He’s not making a pass, is he? Or looking for a flat share?
“Sorry, perhaps that sounded a bit rude. I’m just interested. Interested in people, you know.”
“Oh, right. No, I’m not married. Plenty of time for that.”
“Oh, of course.”
Was it his imagination, or did Gilbert look at him a bit oddly? No, imagination, must be.
“Divorced, me. Didn’t work out. Mind you, I’d marry again. Not easy to find the right woman.”
“No, no, it’s not, is it?” Paul really didn’t want to talk about women, or his love life, or lack thereof; he finished his tea, and murmured something about going to the gents.
He saw Gilbert a couple of times in the second half, not dancing, but sitting and watching the dancers, a bit sadly, perhaps, but Paul really didn’t feel he was under any obligation to go and sit with him. He had plenty of partners – he was a good dancer, though he would blush to say so – and the enjoyment of dancing took over even from the anxious watching for the red-haired woman. His heart sank absurdly, though, when he finished a final polka with a girl from Ealing, and realised that the red-haired woman, the fair man, and the rest of the people they’d been with had all gone.
He wandered over to fetch his coat, feeling near to tears. Ridiculous, he said to himself, when he’d never even seen the woman up close, and she appeared to be spoken for anyway. She was a good dancer, true; but the room was full of tolerably good dancers. He put his coat on, and went with dragging footsteps to the door. As he went out he realised Gilbert was beside him.
“You okay? You look a bit sick.”
“I’m fine. Just tired. Miserable weather for June, isn’t it?”
“Oh well. Not so bad. Paul, I know this is none of my business, but I couldn’t help noticing. At tea time, you kept looking at the table in the corner. Is there… I mean, have you got a problem with somebody?”
“What? Oh – no, not really. I just... There was someone there I thought I knew, that’s all.”
“Ah?”
Having given himself this lead in, he thought he might go on – there was always a chance Gilbert might know who she was. “The girl with the long red hair. I’ve got a feeling I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I can’t think where. You don’t know her, I suppose?”
“Er – long red hair –? Um. No, I’m afraid not. Well, see you next month?”
“Uh. Maybe.”
Gilbert turned aside at a bus stop, and Paul went on to the tube station, his mind in a pitiable state.
~*~
The next month seemed to drag on for years. Work was unexciting, and Paul could find very little to do in his spare time. He watched a lot of television. He wondered if it were worth going up to the hall to other events, in case she went to something else there. But what? He went to a dance one Thursday, but she wasn’t there. Being in the same building without her presence just made the misery worse. It was all so pointless, he told himself; but that didn’t make any difference. Sometimes he had a positive day, when he assured himself that next month she would be there, and he would speak to her – somehow he would make the opportunity, and he wouldn’t dance with anyone until he’d done it. If he made sure of where she was sitting, and stationed himself near there, sooner or later, surely, there would be a chance to smile and say, “Hello. I’ve seen you here before,” or something, something, however naff... But other times he was sure she wouldn’t be there again, or if he spoke to her she would stare at him and turn away... He was, let’s face it, short and slight and nondescript, he thought. He rather imagined people thought of him as “that dreadful weedy little man”, though he had no evidence that they did.
Then something a colleague said at work gave him another dreadful thought – would she think he was stalking her, if he hung about until he had a chance to speak? Was he, in fact, a stalker? Was that what it meant – this obsession with someone you didn’t know? Obsession, infatuation – it was only love at first sight if you both felt it... Oh God. Perhaps he’d better not go to the next ceilidh at all...
When it came, though, he couldn’t face the thought of not going. He would go, he would speak to her, and then he would leave – or at least go to the bar, and keep out of her way.
He arrived early, in fact far too early, and had to go and sit in the bar as nothing else was open. As he glumly started a pint of beer, someone sat down opposite him, and he looked up to see Gilbert’s round, pink, amiable face.
“Hello Paul. You’re early.”
“Yes, I allowed far too much time for the journey. Thought it would be busy, the weather’s so fine. Very hot on the tube.”
“Must be.”
Gilbert seemed distracted; Paul said, “So how are you? Everything okay?”
“Oh yes. Well...” Gilbert fiddled with a beer mat before saying, “Paul. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“What? Uh, no, I don’t think so. Why?”
“It can be a problem, you know. People who come back, and .. who aren’t there.”
“I suppose it could be. But I can’t say I believe in it, you know.”
“No. No, I suppose not. I shan’t trouble you, then. Excuse me – I have to go and speak to someone...”
He wandered off, and Paul sat frowning into his beer. Odd subject to bring up. Still, when he’d finished this pint the hall should be open.
She wasn’t there at the start, and Paul had a bad half hour thinking she wasn’t coming; but at the end of a set of Nottingham Swing he saw a flurry of people in the doorway, and among them an unmistakable figure and a glow of red hair. As he chatted politely to his erstwhile partner, he watched out of the corner of his eye and marked where she put her handbag down. When the next dance started, he went out to the gents, and when he came back he walked – he hoped unobtrusively – round the room, and sat down a yard or two from her bag. She didn’t sit down between that dance and the next, but at the end of the second she walked straight past him, and looked at him, and smiled. He smiled back, but was quite unable to speak. She picked up her handbag and went out of the hall.
She hadn’t returned when the interval started. Paul thought of simply sitting there, stubbornly, waiting for her, but then Gilbert came by, and said, “Cup of tea?”, and Paul couldn’t think of an excuse not to go.
He hunched miserably over his tea, and Gilbert said cautiously, “Paul? There is something wrong, isn’t there?”
“Um. Well, yes. But it’s silly.”
“I won’t laugh.”
“It’s just that I’m... infatuated with this woman. I don’t even know her, I haven’t spoken to her. It’s silly. I’ll get over it. It’s just – it’s nothing.”
“Ah. I see. Is it, by any chance, the red-haired woman you mentioned last time?”
“Well. Yes. Yes, it is. She’s very attractive, isn’t she? But she seems to have a boyfriend, so there’s not much I can do anyway.”
“Ah. No. No, I imagine not. Look, Paul, now don’t take this the wrong way, but I... well, I haven’t actually seen this woman you’re talking about.”
“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you said you saw her last month – when I asked if you knew who she was.”
“Well. No. That’s the thing –”
Paul
had turned, and was looking round the room. “Look,” he said, “she’s just over there, by the door, talking to that woman with the white hair and the peasant blouse –” he turned back, and saw Gilbert, not looking towards the door, but gazing rather worriedly at Paul.
“What?”
“Paul. There’s no one there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There is a woman with white hair, just going out of the door. She’s on her own.”
“Don’t be ridiculous –” he turned again, and there was no one in the doorway. “She’s gone back to the hall. She was there a minute ago.”
“Paul. You have to believe me. Look, there are... people, who... well, who aren’t really there, but who make you believe they are... they do it to mess with your head. You must believe me, Paul; really, you must.”
“What? What do you mean, not really there? What are you talking about?”
“Sometimes they’re people who – well, who were alive, and when they’re… not, they can’t leave. They can’t go from the place where they were alive.”
Paul was staring at him; “You’re telling me she’s a ghost?”
“For want of a better word –”
“You’re mad. No, sorry, but look, I’ve seen her dancing. I mean, the people she’s dancing with must be able to see her – they’d notice, you know? She can’t just be visible to me.”
“Well, maybe, maybe not. I can’t say. But look, just think about the possibility. I mean, listen, the way she’s, mm, enthralled you – is that natural? Has that ever happened before?”
“Uh. Not as such, no. But...” It was crazy. She’d walked by him. He’d felt the air move as she went by. Hadn’t he? On the other hand, she was somehow always on the other side of the room... Oh no, absurd. “Look, are you sure? I mean, maybe you’ve just missed seeing her –”
“Really. I know about these things. You should be careful. As I said, they mess with your head. They like to upset you. Cause you grief. You must be careful.” Gilbert was gazing at him, obviously desperately concerned.
Paul shook his head, sat back. “I don’t know,” he said, “I really don’t know. I honestly can’t believe what you’re saying, but... look, let me think about it.”
“Of course. But just do me a favour: don’t make any more attempts to speak to her, to get closer to her. It could be very dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“You see, sometimes the reason these people stay around, is because they like to play with people. Manipulate them. They can’t leave anything alone. If you get close to them, get involved, let them influence you – it won’t end happily, I promise.”
Paul shook his head again. “I don’t know. I – okay, okay, I’ll keep away from her for the time being,” thinking, fat chance of anything else. Suddenly he couldn’t bear Gilbert looking concernedly at him any longer; he got up, and went towards the hall. The red-haired girl and the fair man were leaving. He stared as they went out of the door, and realised they were putting up umbrellas; it had started to rain. Surely ghosts didn’t need umbrellas? Gilbert was still looking at Paul, still worried.
Paul took a deep breath, said nothing, and went into the hall for his waterproof.
Gilbert was waiting at the outer door; they walked in silence to the bus stop. As they parted, Gilbert said, “Just think of what I’ve said. Be careful.”
“I will. But I honestly can’t… Never mind. See you next month.”
“It’s closed in August.”
“Whatever.” He realised he was being rude, but couldn’t stand another word; he plunged off through the rain to the tube station.
~*~
August was hot and wet and unbearable. She was in his mind more than ever. He was supposed to go to a folk festival, but he stayed home, watching television, remembering her face as she smiled at him. Perhaps, he thought, Gilbert’s warning was too late – he was caught, he would waste away, like the lovers of La Belle Dame Sans Merci. Perhaps he would join her, haunting the place for the rest of time. Life had become something to be struggled through – but death might be no improvement.
Well, he must go back in September, and ask Gilbert if he knew any way of getting free of her enchantment. Maybe he could get exorcised, or something... round and round in his head, the thought of her, and then the fear of what she might be, and then the thought of her again, till he didn’t know which way was up.
~*~
September was fine and warm, but he hesitated about going out, and arrived well after the start. He took off his coat, and deliberately didn’t look round. A longways set had just finished, and he was about to make for the nearest empty seat, when a voice said, “Paul! Manalive, what brings you here from darkest Plumstead?”
He turned, and saw a stocky woman with short dark hair – Alice, whom he’d known at college. He was delighted to see someone he was sure was real, and beamed at her.
“Hi. Haven’t seen you in a parrot’s lifetime. Are you still in London?”
“I’m back – been working in Manchester for six months. Didn’t think you came here?”
“Only started recently. There’s not much down my way.”
“Well, good to see you. Oh, this is Steve, and his sister, Sam.”
And suddenly he was being introduced to the tall fair man and the red-haired woman. He felt dizzy, and hoped he managed to make sense. He shook Sam’s hand. It felt real. Alice, surely, hadn’t become a ghost – he’d have heard something. Sam had a distinct Wolverhampton accent, which to his besotted mind was wholly beautiful.
Alice was saying, “Sam’s just down from the Midlands, which are sodden and unkind, working at my place. We’ve known each other over the phone for a couple of years. Come on Steve, I like this one.”
And she hauled him off, leaving Paul to dance with Sam; and it went on like that till the interval, when they all went for a cup of tea – Sam didn’t drink. Paul looked round the tearoom for Gilbert, but couldn’t see him. The table in the corner was empty.
Steve got a tray of teas and cakes and biscuits, and they sat down at a large table, but Paul couldn’t help looking over his shoulder.
Sam said, “You usually sit over there, don’t you?”
Good lord, she’d noticed him. “Er, yes. I suppose I do.
“I saw you a couple of times, and I nearly came over, you were so on your own, but you didn’t really look as if you wanted company?”
“What?”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but you were always sitting on your own when I saw you.”
“What? Oh. Um, you didn’t see anyone with me? A shortish bloke with brown hair?”
She frowned; “No.”
“Uh...” A horrible thought started to grow in his mind. On your own. People who aren’t there. They mess with your head... His stomach turned, and his vision darkened; he felt like a man who thinks he is walking on a broad, safe path, till the sun rises and he sees the sheer drop inches from his feet. They mess with your head...
“Are you all right? You’ve gone white.” Sam’s voice recalled him, and he shuddered. She took his hand, and hers was warm and slightly rough, with a callous on the index finger. He stared at it, and took a few deep breaths.
“I’m fine. Yeah. I’m fine. Just a bit dizzy for a minute”
“You sure?”
“Sure. It’s a bit hot in here, and I didn’t get round to eating before I came out.”
“D’you want a sandwich or something?”
He looked at her, the concern in her clear brown eyes, took another deep breath, and turned for a moment at the sudden feeling that someone was standing behind him, that Gilbert would come up and touch him on the shoulder... There was no one behind him. Gilbert was nowhere in the room. Paul turned back and shook his head.
“I’m fine. I’ll have another bit of cake. And believe me, I do like company. But some people’s more than others.”
He smiled, hesitantly; she smiled back, accepting th
e compliment; and his own smile grew wider and assured.
Long Dene Mill
Sarah Singleton
A girl walked the path along the little river through leafless woods. Midwinter trees climbed the valley sides, a distant mass of mauve and grey in brief flashes of sunshine. Lolling hart’s tongue ferns and thick moss grew on the broken stone walls, splashes of green in the dim, chambered wood.
Eleanor was making her way from Ford to Northcombe, two miles up the valley. She had four books in her bag to exchange at the lending library in the larger village. She crossed a stone stile into a low tunnel of hawthorn and holly close to the river’s edge, and skirted hollows of deep, watery mud, pocked by the hooves of cattle.
She always enjoyed the walk, and particularly today, alone. She was usually accompanied by her aunt, a vigorous, middle-aged spinster with an appetite for rambling and conversation, but this afternoon Constance was otherwise engaged, some charitable work at the vicarage. Eleanor hadn’t paid attention to the details.
The path opened into a narrow field beside one of the several lonely, stone mills, where the river spread into a pool beneath a noisy weir.
Then she stopped. Ahead – another walker, dressed in black, too far away to make out more than height and slenderness, the wide-brimmed hat on his head, a long stride. Nonetheless, his intent figure was the focus, the needle’s eye through which the landscape flowed- the dark and light day, the winter valley of river and trees.
Eleanor narrowed her eyes, trying to make him out. She started walking again, picking up her pace to catch up. She hopped over another stile and hurried past a row of low labourers’ cottages. The man had disappeared along the track by another large mill, uphill, where the path climbed the valley’s side. Eleanor started to run, but she didn’t see him again till the path opened up, higher now, offering a view of the wooded valley, the stream, Northcombe in the distance.
Hauntings Page 13