by Iris Gower
‘Can you sleep with me?’ I asked before I realized what I’d said.
Tom understood me, however and kissed me lightly on the cheek. ‘Yes, if that’s what you want. I’ll come and stay in your house. There are plenty of rooms and several comfortable sofas.’
‘Thank you, Tom.’ I felt myself blush, and I bent so that my hair covered my face.
Tom took my arm and led me inside to the comparative quiet of the library. The ghost hunters were all in the hall, watching the stairs, with Brownie cameras at the ready and flashlight and sensors and all sorts of equipment I didn’t begin to understand.
Tom and I drank some wine and then fell asleep alongside each other on the sofa. I woke to find his arms around me. He had taken off his jacket and my face was against the smooth material of his shirt. I pretended to sleep a little while longer enjoying the closeness and warmth of him, but at last he stirred, and I sat up, rubbing my eyes.
There was a bustling noise in the hallway and the ghost hunters were coming back to life. I heard Mrs Ward in the kitchen, the smell of bacon permeated the air and I breathed a sigh of relief; after breakfast I would have the place to myself again. I could start to paint more pictures, work on the sketches I’d drawn last night.
William – ‘young William’ as the other guests called him – seemed to have formed a truce with Betty, who in spite of her plumpness was very pretty, and together they went outside to wait for the taxi taking them into town.
‘Perhaps I should arrange a bus,’ I murmured, and Tom, who had come outside after me, rested a friendly arm on my shoulder.
‘I think that would be a very good idea. It would mean the visitors would have to keep to a time schedule and leave promptly at whatever time you decided.’
‘I’d have to charge a small fee, or put up the price of the visit by a few shillings, otherwise I’d lose out,’ I said and burst out laughing. ‘I’m becoming quite mercenary, aren’t I?’
‘Businesslike, that’s what you are becoming, and just as well if you mean to turn this old heap back into a liveable, pleasurable house with a show garden.’
‘Oh, I never thought of showing the gardens.’ I hesitated. ‘I suppose the cloisters are worth seeing, and the yew-tree arch, and even the entrance flooring is as old as . . . well, very old.’ I decided that I would have to research the history of Aberglasney very thoroughly. I would ask Beatrice where the original plans were and see if I could find out anything more about the house at the library in town.
At last, all the visitors had departed, and Mrs Ward was kind enough to provide us all with a roast for lunch. We sat down together: me and Tom, Mrs Ward and her daughter.
‘Thank you so much, Mrs Ward.’ I cut a juicy piece of beef and popped it into my mouth.
Rosie smirked. ‘It was me who cooked the dinner, Miss Evans,’ she said. ‘My mam taught me. I’ve known how to cook since I was a little girl.’
‘The gravy is a delight,’ I said, feeling slightly reproved.
‘Mam made that, miss. She’s good at gravy is our mam.’
‘Well, you are both invaluable to me.’ I hoped I was being tactful. ‘Perhaps we can make this a regular arrangement. Do you both think you can bear to come and work for me, say once a month?’
Mrs Ward nodded, her mouth full, and it was Rosie who spoke up. ‘That would be very handy, miss, what with Dad lost in the war, but all this screaming about ghost shakes me up, mind.’
‘This ghost business is a lot of nonsense.’ Mrs Ward tightened the knot on her wraparound apron and adjusted her turban, tucking in a stray curl of permed hair. ‘Hysterical people see what they want to see.’
‘There’s a lot of truth in that, Mrs Ward, but it seems to be paying, and if I earn money I can put the old house right and afford full-time help before too long.’
Mrs Ward brightened up. ‘Well, as long as I don’t have to speak to them townies. I’ll stay in the kitchen and mind my own, and you, Rosie, will do the same thing.’
‘I will that, Mam,’ Rosie said meekly, but her eyes were on Tom. ‘Mr Tom, sir, I hear the soldiers are having another party tonight with some of the village girls. Can I come along, sir?’
Mrs Ward bristled. ‘Don’t be so forward! In any case, remember that those soldiers are . . . are not from this country,’ she added, looking flustered.
‘They are black Americans, Mrs Ward. They are getting together from all over Wales,’ Tom said easily, though I could tell he was offended. ‘They are good brave men, and if the enemy had come here they would have defended the people of this village – including you and Rosie – with their lives.’
Mrs Ward lowered her eyes. ‘I got to agree with that, sir,’ she mumbled. ‘I suppose you can go, Rosie, so long as you keep yourself tidy.’
We all knew what she meant, and I met Tom’s eyes, trying not to laugh. Rosie was ecstatic.
‘You’d be welcome,’ Tom said. ‘And perhaps Miss Evans would kindly come along as well?’
I could hardly say no in the circumstances. ‘That would be very nice,’ I mumbled.
At last I was alone in the house. Tom had gone, and there wasn’t even a sign of Beatrice; she must have been frightened off by the crowds. The quiet was a little unnerving after all the excitement, but I looked forward to seeing Tom at the social evening he’d arranged for the remaining black airmen.
For the rest of the afternoon I painted as if I was possessed. I was so involved in my colours and what was appearing on the canvas I forgot to eat the sandwiches Mrs Ward had left for me for my supper; I only remembered them when I realized I badly needed a drink.
I sat outside, fed the sandwiches to one of the feral cats that wandered the estate looking for mice, and drank a hot cup of tea. Then I went back to the studio to catch the last of the light.
The painting was of the house; the weather-worn exterior was a lovely mellow golden, heavy with shadows where the light didn’t touch it. In one window was a dim figure that I didn’t even remember painting, but it looked good, very good, and my heart lightened. I felt in my bones that the canvas would be bought and put in the London gallery.
It was only when I heard music and laughter from the perimeter of the gardens that I remembered the party. Hastily, I washed and dressed in a clean full skirt and a white collared blouse. I couldn’t find suitable shoes so I walked across the grounds barefoot, enjoying the cool feel of the grass.
Tom’s men had cleared the lecture room, moving the tables to one side and leaving a good space for dancing. Rosie was looking very pretty in a demure blue dress and blue sandals, her hair loose around her flushed face. I hoped she wasn’t drinking too much.
One of the Americans bowed and asked me to dance. I took his hand and he held me at a discreet distance, holding me lightly around the waist. ‘I’m Billie,’ he said in his soft drawl, ‘but the men, they call me the black bomber, miss, because of the colour of my skin and—’ He hesitated, and Tom appeared at my side.
‘And because this man is a wonderful bomb-aimer,’ he said. ‘Now, may I cut in here and dance with Miss Evans?’
Before I knew it I had been swept into Tom’s arms and we were whirling around the floor to the tunes of the Glen Miller orchestra. I felt my hair fly around my face and my cheeks flush with pleasure as we danced and laughed. After a while, breathless, I begged for a drink, and Tom brought me a glass full of amber liquid.
‘Here’s a scotch and rye, Riana. Drink it up! It will do you good.’
The liquor wove its way in a spiral of fire down my throat and into my bloodstream, and instantly I felt light headed. The music changed to a slow waltz, and Tom took my hand and led me to the dance floor. He drew me close, and – almost without thinking – I put my head on his shoulder. Gently, he rested his cheek against my hair, and I’d never felt more happy and more comfortable with a man in my life.
I reminded myself that he would have to leave for America before long; I didn’t really know when the last of the airmen would go. I sup
posed it would be wise to ask Tom rather than go on wondering when I would be alone again.
We had the last dance together, and then Tom took my arm. ‘I’ll walk you to the door, honey,’ he said softly. He took my hand, and we left the heat and the cigarette smoke of the mess room and went out into the night.
The moon was full casting an eerie light over Aberglasney. As we drew nearer the doorway I thought I could hear voices. ‘Tom, have the visitors made a mistake and come back to the house, do you think?’
‘What do you mean, honey?’ He sounded puzzled.
‘Don’t you hear the voices?’
‘All I can hear is the pounding of my heart when I feel your hand in mine, honey.’ He turned me to him and kissed me, a real kiss, deep and passionate. I warmed against him, the alcohol dancing in my blood, and the sounds of voices faded. I was drunk on Tom’s Scotch – and what’s more, I at last admitted it to myself, I was intoxicated with Tom. His hands gently moved over my shoulders, down my arms and on to my waist as he pulled me closer.
To my great disappointment, Tom released me at the door. ‘See you tomorrow, Riana,’ he said softly, and then he was gone into the shadows.
Being alone was such an anticlimax. I didn’t know what I imagined would have happened if Tom had come in with me. Would I have allowed him into my bedroom, into my bed? On the other hand, how could he have walked away from me? I was his for the taking, wasn’t I?
I sat at the kitchen table and rubbed my eyes wearily. I had been saved from making a fool of myself by Tom’s good sense; he was an American officer and he would never take advantage of a drunken friend.
When I opened my eyes again, Beatrice was sitting opposite me. ‘What were all those strange people doing here?’ she asked.
‘Oh –’ I pulled my senses together as much as I could after drinking all evening – ‘they were visitors, looking for ghosts. Remember your suggestion? Well, I thought about it and decided ghost hunting was a very good idea.’
‘I presume they were paying good money to stay here then?’
‘Yes, I suppose they were, but they all enjoyed themselves and intend to come again.’ I was a little on the defensive.
‘Well, don’t let the old house down, and don’t forget your vow to solve the murders, my dear. I would like my late husband’s name cleared.’
‘I didn’t know I had actually made a vow,’ I said, puzzled.
‘Well, you did.’ She smiled a beautiful and somehow old-fashioned smile. ‘In spirit, anyway.’
I began to laugh. Everything seemed so funny suddenly: Tom, me, my ghost nights, and my struggle to build up a crumbling old house. I was a painter – what was I doing trying to be a businesswoman?
‘Go to bed, dear,’ Beatrice said reprovingly. ‘You’re a little bit the worse for wear, I believe.’
Like a child, I obeyed and went meekly to bed.
TEN
I didn’t see Tom the next day. I deliberately stayed in my bright studio, working on my painting of Aberglasney. At one point I stood back a little way and thought that the light and shade I had added worked well and that the shadowy figure in an upper window looked rather like Beatrice. I smiled fondly. She was becoming a good friend, a companion, soothing me when my nerves were frayed.
Mrs Ward called early afternoon and I beckoned her into the kitchen. I lit the stove and set out two cups. ‘Do you take milk Mrs Ward?’ I asked cheerfully.
She nodded and put a basket on the table. ‘I’ve brought you some eggs, Miss Evans.’ Her voice was hoarse from her continuous smoking, and as she sat down she lit up another Woodbine. ‘My Rosie didn’t come home last night, Miss Evans. She told me she stayed with you.’ She was narrowing her eyes against the smoke and scrutinizing my face.
I poured the tea to give myself time to think. The last I’d seen of Rosie was her dancing with a handsome American airman. ‘Well, there’s plenty of room here,’ I prevaricated. ‘And I was a little bit . . . tired myself, so everything is a bit blurred, but I’m sure if that’s what Rosie says that’s what she did.’
‘I see, miss.’
I was sure she did: right through me. I hadn’t the heart to let Rosie down, but I meant to have a word with her when I next saw her. How dare she use me as an alibi when she had obviously been up to no good?
‘When will you want me and Rosie again, miss?’ Mrs Ward’s voice broke into my thoughts. I looked at her and saw her brows were drawn into a frown. She knew I was lying, and she was displeased with me.
‘In a month’s time, Mrs Ward,’ I said flatly. She was being paid to help me, not to question me. ‘If you have the time to come and work for me at Aberglasney, that is.’
‘Yes, I want to come. I need the money, and anyway, I like cooking and waiting on town folks and foreign folks alike. But –’ her eyes narrowed – ‘I don’t like them dark-skinned airmen down at the barracks. Up to no good, they are. Chasing after respectable girls like my daughter.’
‘Thank you for the eggs, Mrs Ward,’ I said, hastily changing the subject. ‘How much do I owe you?’
She told me, and I counted out a shilling and then took the eggs from the basket to put on the cold slab in the pantry. They were brown and fresh with bits of feather sticking to the shells, and my mouth watered. I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat that morning, and it was well past lunchtime.
When Mrs Ward had gone, I made some poached eggs on toast and ate hungrily. When I had finished, I glanced out of the kitchen window and decided I’d do another hour or so’s painting while there was still plenty of light.
I worked until my back was aching and it was almost dark, but finally the painting was finished and all I needed to do was to let it dry. I opened the big widow in the gallery – and then, on second thoughts, shut it again. I didn’t want anything happening to this painting. I’d worked too long and hard on it.
I put on the gas lights and heard the pop and saw the widening of the light. One day I would be able to afford electricity in more of the rooms, but for now, the gas worked very well – at least it was most atmospheric for my guests on the ghost nights.
I helped myself to a glass of sherry and then, just when I felt relaxed and sleepy, there was a knock on the front door. My heart almost stopped as I imagined Tom’s big figure waiting for me outside, but when I opened the door it was Rosie who was waiting for me.
‘Just the person I wanted to see,’ I said in a hard voice. ‘Will you please keep me out of your private life in future? I won’t be your alibi again.’
‘I’m sorry, but it wasn’t what you think,’ Rosie said quickly. ‘I was helping Carl with a letter he was writing home to his mother, that’s all.’
‘And for that you had to stay out all night, is that it?’ My tone was steeped in sarcasm, which Rosie missed completely.
‘Well, no, not all night, but then I fell asleep on the sofa – in the communal sitting room, mind – and Carl left me there while he went to the barracks’ dorm, as he calls it.’
‘I’ll believe you, though not many would,’ I said. ‘Just don’t tell your mother you stayed with me again, hear me?’
‘I hear you, miss,’ Rosie said meekly and made a quick exit.
Alone again, I tried to fall back into the relaxed state I had been in before she’d come, but somehow the mood was gone. I wanted to be with Tom. Almost without thinking, I went outside and stood in the garden and saw my seat, a patch of light wood, under the arches of the cloisters. I walked towards the seat, and as I came close I heard a scraping sound above my head.
I glanced up in time to see a huge stone object falling towards my head. I darted under the cloister just in time as the stone crashed down, throwing up dust and fragments that shot like bullets towards me.
When I caught my breath, I saw one of the stone dragons had fallen – or been pushed – from the walkway above the cloister. It now lay shattered and broken at my feet.
One huge wing stuck up from the ground – embedded in the earth lik
e a giant, curving scythe. If the statue had fallen on me I’d have had very little chance of survival.
I scrambled up the steps, too incensed to be frightened. Someone was trying to kill me, or to destroy my mind! I stood there in the darkness . . . and, of course, I was alone. I stared out at the shadowed land around me. Why would anyone want to hurt me? Was it because I was trying, in a feeble way, to solve the deaths of the five young maids? Or was it because I was the new owner of Aberglasney?
Shivering, suddenly apprehensive, I returned to the house, curled up in my chair and helped myself to another glass of sherry. Soon I felt more relaxed. It had all been an unfortunate accident, I told myself, but before I went to bed I switched on some lights and made sure all the doors and windows were locked against the outside world.
ELEVEN
In the morning, my painting of Aberglasney was almost dry. The colours seemed to blend in harmony, and the whole house had the mysterious air I’d been trying for. The figure, who looked a little like Beatrice with a dim glow of warmth behind her, gave the painting a piquancy that took it from a cold stone building to a lived-in house.
It was a great pity the ornate portico was missing from round the front door, I thought. It had been sold some time before I’d bought Aberglasney, but I vowed that one day, when I had enough money, I would get it back.
There was no sign of Tom, and feeling restless, I decided to take a train into town. I would go to the library, read up on the house and delve more into local reports of the deaths of the young maids.
The train journey was enlivened by the antics of a young girl and her brother, who were shut in the same small carriage as myself. At last, tired of the exuberance of the children, I wandered into the corridor for a little respite. Enclosed in the carriage behind me I could hear them play and fight, and then the girl began to cry, and by the time I arrived in Swansea I had a thumping headache.