House of Shadows

by Iris Gower

  ‘Was the funeral very dreadful?’ Mrs Ward asked. ‘They usually are.’

  ‘Very dreadful,’ I replied. ‘In more ways than one. I’ve lost a dear friend and a patron of the gallery where most of my work was sold.’

  ‘Well, Riana, we’ll just have to have more weekends,’ Mrs Ward said practically.

  ‘The profit from the weekends will help keep the place going,’ I agreed, ‘but I needed the money from my work to pay for the improvements to the house.’

  ‘We’ll manage.’ Mrs Ward looked at me thoughtfully. ‘What about taking me in as a lodger?’

  ‘What?’ It was something I’d never thought about.

  ‘I only rent Mill Cottage,’ she said, ‘and you could take rent out of my wages. That would help a bit, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Ward,’ I said thoughtfully. Did I really want a live-in lodger? But then my house was open to whoever chose to come to the weekends, and Mrs Ward was with me most of the time anyway – sometimes until late at night.

  ‘I do hate the walk home when it’s dark,’ she said. It was as if she read my thoughts. ‘I wouldn’t need much room, mind, just a small place to sleep. After all, I spend most of my time in the kitchen here as it is.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like a good idea,’ I said at last, ‘but I don’t like the idea of taking money from you for rent.’

  ‘Bless you, I’ll be having bed and board, and all I need is a few shilling for a pack of Woodbines every week. In any case,’ she said, smiling, ‘my lease comes up for renewal soon, and my grumpy old landlord is bound to put the rent up if I sign again.’

  ‘I see. Well, all in all, it sounds as if it will work.’ I thought of Mrs Ward being in the house all the time; it would have its detractions, but it would have benefits too – like company when I listened to the radio or had a cup of tea. It wasn’t as if I had a husband or a boyfriend or anything close to it; not with Tom playing silly games with me.

  I held out my hand and took Mrs Ward’s red scrubbed fingers, and yet a strange doubt lingered. Was I doing the right thing?

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mrs Ward was right about making more money from the house, and fortunately the next ghost-haunting weekend, which would take place in February, was oversubscribed. I had to make a waiting list of people and arrange another weekend quickly.

  All the old crowd had priority for this weekend: Colonel Fred, young William, plump Betty, and all the other ‘oldies’ like Doctor Bravage and Mr Bleesdale. I was able only to allow a few new guests in for the weekend.

  Colonel Fred’s accident at the Christmas ghost-haunting weekend had hit the newspapers some time ago and caused quite a stir: it seems the public believed he had been attacked by vengeful ghosts; a story he had no doubt fostered. Also, the ‘sightings’ of the five dead serving maids from the last weekend had made a big story in the newspapers, and now were linked with poor Mr Readings’ death. One headline had read: ‘CURSED BY THE GHOSTS OF ABERGLASNEY.’

  I feared even more for my paintings. No one would want them if they believed the whole enterprise – even buying paintings of mine – was ‘cursed’.

  The maids, as if on cue, appeared again that night, to the delight and terror of my guests. I even saw shadowy ghostly figures flitting along the landing myself, but I put it down to the flickering lights and the large amounts of sherry I’d consumed. The shadowy figures drifted across the landing wearing sweet cotton nightgowns, but faded to nothing as they reached the stairs. I blinked and put the ‘vision’ down to imagination. I didn’t want to believe that anything bad would happen after seeing the maids, as it had the last time they had been seen.

  Young William took photographs on his Brownie camera, clicking away as if he was going to make a fortune for his pictures from the newspapers – and maybe he would.

  Beatrice also put in an appearance: peering out of her room with a frown, as if her sleep had been disturbed, and wearing a ‘Queen Victoria’ kind of sleep bonnet, and then disappearing abruptly with no sound of footsteps, almost as if she was floating on air. I don’t know how she managed it, but she was very convincing.

  I went into the kitchen and drank some thick coffee, trying to still my reeling brain. Mrs Ward was sitting with her feet up in the rocking chair and didn’t sit to attention as she usually did when I came into the room. But now she was a lodger, and lived in, she had every right to make herself comfortable. ‘The visitors seeing things again, are they?’ she said dryly.

  ‘So am I!’ I sank into the old armchair in the corner of the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what I saw, but it certainly looked like ghosts trailing across the landing and turning into thin air.’

  ‘Trick of the light, I expect.’ Mrs Ward took my now empty cup. ‘I’ll make some more coffee. You’ve had rather too much alcohol,’ she said sagely.

  I sighed heavily. ‘I expect you’re right – or else it was mass hysteria gripping us all.’

  ‘Whatever, it will be good for business.’ Mrs Ward was, as ever, practical. She handed me the fresh coffee and sat down again, this time resting her slippers on the thick rug that covered the slate floor. A good fire burned in the grate, and even as I looked at the flames Mrs Ward added more coal. I was only glad she had no more dire warnings about bad things happening when the maids appeared.

  The heat made me sleepy, and I let the haziness overtake me. I wanted to paint the maids while they were fresh in my mind or my imagination – whatever it was – but I was far too tired.

  Later, I felt arms lift me, and I was being carried upstairs to my bedroom. I could smell Tom. Not the reeking smell of the water and the island, but a fresh-washed tobacco smell, and I put my arms around his neck and clung to him. If it was a dream, I meant to enjoy it.

  He kissed me and held me tenderly, and I wanted more from him than kisses and hugs.

  ‘I am not the engaged man everyone thinks I am. You must trust me on that, Riana,’ he whispered, his breath sweet against my face.

  I felt so young, so in love, and reason flew out through the window. I pressed against him and felt the hardness of his masculine body against my softness. I yielded to him willingly, and that night was the most thrilling, fulfilling night of my life. I felt happy, loved and desirable. That night I had become a woman – and in the morning I was lying in an empty bed.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I painted furiously the next day. A glow of shame was filling me, but my head was clear as an icicle. I knew Tom had made love to me, but did he love me or was he taking advantage of my feelings for him? I was in a pain of rejection, of being a fool . . . and yet there was a certain kind of joy too. I had felt the thrill of possession, of arousing passion, in Tom and in myself. I had wanted him as much as he wanted me, and that night, that experience, would be mine for ever.

  Later I had a phone call from the gallery. Diane had taken control of the business! Dear Mr Readings had left it all to her: the gallery, the paintings, the goodwill . . . Everything.

  ‘May I come down to see you, dear Riana?’ Diane’s voice was still cool with grief, but she told me she wanted to display some of my work at her grand reopening exhibition. ‘We’ll make it together, Riana,’ she said, and I’m sure I heard a catch in her voice. ‘My dear man would have wanted us to go on, don’t you think?’

  ‘I really do, Diane. Please come and stay as soon as possible. I’ll meet you at the station, and Mrs Ward and I will make you very welcome and comfortable, I promise.’ I hesitated, running the phone cord through my fingers. ‘Just so long as ghosts don’t disturb you,’ I added, only half joking.

  ‘There’s only one ghost that would be important to me, Riana, and that’s of my dear Mr Readings himself. If I could see him again just once to tell him how much I care, I could be happy.’

  ‘Come soon, Diane.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow will be wonderful!’ I was enthusiastic. I could do with some company
, and Diane would be an excellent confidante. I felt I could tell her about Tom and my love for him, and I would see if she could understand the strange way he was behaving. She was an older woman and must be wiser than I was in affairs of the heart.

  That night I stayed up late painting, inspired by Diane’s news about the gallery. Once again I had a home for my work, a showcase where art lovers could see what I’d done and hopefully appreciate the paintings and buy them.

  Diane would explain how long I had to paint the pictures when she arrived; so far I’d only painted the one picture, and even that wasn’t finished. At last the lack of light defeated me though, and I cleaned up my pallet and wiped the rims of the tubes of colour and put them aside for the morning.

  I stood back and looked at the painting I’d created of the young serving maids, hair flowing over white-gowned slender shoulders, tapering away to a ghostly mist of grey and blue thinned down with white spirit. I sighed; it had worked. The light shone from the candelabra on the landing, the door to the blue room was open, and there was a glimpse of a bed with a distant figure sitting on the quilted cover.

  Again I’d painted Beatrice into the picture, all dressed up in her Victorian nightwear – out of time and sequence with the maids, who had died in the nineteen twenties and would have thought themselves modern young women. I’d seen pictures of well-off, elegant women wearing bobbed hair and fox furs, but young women servants wouldn’t have been allowed such luxuries, even if they could afford them.

  I went to my bedroom and looked at my reflection in the long mirror. My frock had a narrow skirt and a sweetheart neckline. There was nothing elegant about me. My hair was rolled back, and I could have easily passed for a wartime housewife. I untied my hair and it fell wild and loose, hanging down to my waist in vibrant red curls. Now I looked more like an artist. I flung a red scarf around my waist and tied it in a knot, and against the dull grey of my frock it looked good, almost gypsy-like, as if I was going to dance the rest of the night away around a blazing open-air fire with gold earrings sparkling in the dim light.

  I sighed and almost hugged myself. What would Tom think if he could see me now, looking wanton and free, with bare feet and ready to dance? But he had seen me more wanton than this, he had taken me in the very bed I was standing near, and I felt my cheeks grow hot at the memory. I felt thrilled too. He had made me his woman, and whatever happened now he would always be the love of my life, the only love I would ever want.

  Diane’s visit came and went; we hardly had time to talk about my life. Diane was busy planning the way she would run the gallery, the exhibitions she would hold. ‘Of course, Riana, you will be my first and principle artist always,’ she promised.

  Inspired by her words, for the next few weeks I worked unceasingly on my paintings, barely eating or sleeping, but creating pictures that – in spite of my frenzy – turned out well. They were colourful and atmospheric. It was almost as if I’d entered a new phase in my life . . . and in a way I had.

  I saw nothing of Tom in those weeks, but I always felt warm when I thought of him taking me in his arms and making love to me. I was his woman now, whatever he chose to do, and when I saw him again I would tell him so in no uncertain terms.

  Love surged through me at the thought of him in his flying jacket and boots. Even soaked and dripping with seaweed, his hair plastered over his face. He was always handsome, and that lovable smile that seemed especially for me was always there, crinkling up his eyes and showing the tantalizing curve of his mouth. How I loved Tom and wanted to make love with him again!

  Mrs Ward remonstrated with me one day on a rare visit to the kitchen. ‘You should eat more, Riana. I don’t know how you keep going. You peck at your food like a bird.’

  ‘Once the exhibition is done I’ll relax,’ I said. ‘I’ve painted enough pictures now, and I have just one to finish. I’ll eat my fill then, don’t worry.’

  ‘You have remembered we’ve got a ghost weekend next week, haven’t you?’

  I hadn’t, but I put on a brave face. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be ready to ease up by then.’

  ‘What about this exhibition of yours? Won’t you be going up to London for the opening about then?’

  I made a quick mental calculation. ‘No, it’s the week after I’ve got everything organized.’ I breathed a sigh of relief; it was pure luck that the two events were a week apart.

  The ghost-haunting nights were becoming very well attended now, and a bigger crowd than usual had booked for the next event, giving Mrs Ward and Treasure and me more beds to make up. I had to double up rooms now, as well as the dormitories, with two beds in each. Soon I would be able to furnish other bedrooms – and maybe some more of the unused downstairs rooms – to accommodate more people. Now that I had an outlet for my paintings again, anything was possible. But even with the extra rooms, there still wasn’t enough space to fit all the people who wanted to attend the next event – so, thinking of the profit, I decided to arrange an extra ghost-haunting weekend for the week after the exhibition.

  I had worked day and night and completed six paintings. The grand reopening exhibition at the gallery would contain a small but select variety of paintings, and if all of mine sold then I’d have some income to spend on the house.

  The ghost weekends were bringing in a healthy regular profit, and even though sometimes no supernatural events took place – no sightings, no noises in the night – the reputation Aberglasney had gained for being haunted was well established by now. However, even though no one expected ghosts to appear to order when there were guests staying, so far the ‘ghosts’ had been extremely cooperative. Even I was beginning to believe there were certain presences in the house that couldn’t be explained.

  Beatrice believed in the uneasy spirits of the dead serving maids and always did her bit as a ‘Victorian ghost’ to make some excitement happen on quiet nights. I lived in fear she would be caught – grabbed by the colonel or one of the younger guests, who could move more quickly – but she never was.

  Tonight was a cold winter night, with frost designing patterns on the glass in the windows. I knew that next time I painted a picture I would have windows filled with traceries of frost in the background. I did a little pencil sketch that attempted to catch the mood, but frost on glass was going to be difficult to recreate in paint, a challenge. My heart lifted. It was just as Tom was a challenge; all I didn’t know about him was a challenge I would love to solve.

  This weekend ‘young William’ had brought a new young lady to hunt ghosts with him, much to the disappointment of some of the other ladies who’d hoped to bag him for themselves – especially ‘plump Betty’, who fancied herself irresistible to men.

  Miss Connie Spears, as we were introduced to young William’s girlfriend, was tiny and dark-haired and very slender. She looked as if a puff of wind, let alone a gaggle of ghosts, would blow her over, but she had an incredibly strong voice which she demonstrated after dinner by singing a medley of songs to us.

  I wondered how the ‘ghosts’ were appreciating it and smiled as I thought of Beatrice covering her ears in the bedroom. I’d asked her to join us, but she’d said, ‘No –’ very firmly – ‘I couldn’t spoil the image the guests have of me as a ghost,’ which made sense, I supposed.

  I felt guilty though at leaving her out, and asked Mrs Ward to take some supper on a tray to the blue room.

  She shook her head so much that her greying curls came loose from the pins and fell against her face, making her seem much younger. ‘You won’t catch me going in there,’ she announced, folding her arms firmly across her breasts.

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts!’ I was amused, but she obviously wasn’t.

  ‘I don’t care about ghosts, but have you seen the state of the ceiling in there?’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you can see the daylight through the hole in the tiles. It must be terrible there when it’s cold and raining. You couldn’t expect an
yone to live there, not even a ghost.’

  ‘But you’ve seen Beatrice go to and fro on the stair, surely? She seems to like it in there. She’s cosy and warm, and she always has the little electric fire to heat the room. I saw to that myself.’

  ‘More fool you. Of course I’ve seen Beatrice, but she’s nutty as a fruit cake, though I’ll admit she makes herself useful in those strange clothes of hers, but if you think there are ghosts in the attic then that painting stuff is softening your brain!’

  ‘Don’t worry then. I’ll take the tray up myself.’ I was irritated, but it didn’t do to upset such a valuable asset as Mrs Ward.

  I caught Beatrice doing some needlework; her fingers were deft, slender and skilled as she stitched away at the embroidery. I glanced up at the ceiling, and I couldn’t see any holes there at all. Mrs Ward must have had too many glasses of wine – or else she was making excuses not to climb the stairs. Perhaps she was tired or getting arthritic; it was a good thing I’d brought Treasure in when I did.

  ‘Party going with a swing, if I’m hearing correctly,’ Beatrice said dryly. ‘Nice enough voice, but we could do with lowering the volume a bit. Who on earth is singing?’

  ‘Young William’s new lady friend. You wouldn’t think it, but she’s tiny and dainty and frail! I don’t know where that big voice has room to hide. Anyway, she’s adding to the spirit of the weekend. She’s at least thirty – much older than William – but he clearly adores her.’

  Beatrice raised her eyebrows. ‘Likes older women then? Perhaps even I have a chance!’ She giggled, and I giggled with her, but I was wise enough not to get too close to her. Beatrice didn’t like anyone close to her.

  The singing began again, some jazzy tunes from the wartime, and I could hear that Miss Spears was not going to let up.

  ‘Do me a favour, Beatrice,’ I suggested. ‘Do your bit along the corridor, cause a diversion from Miss Spears’ good intentions.’

  Beatrice nodded and put down her sewing, waving her hand impatiently at me. ‘Depart then, go.’