‘It could be.’
‘Did you get the exorcist to come?’
‘His housekeeper told me on the telephone that he’s out of the country on a case. He should be back in a week. I sent him a letter explaining everything for him to read on his return.’
‘And William?’
‘Our Mr Fortune wants to hold another séance, in the cellar this time. He believes that if he could locate the spot where the baby was buried and its bones could be given a proper burial everything would go back to normal.’
They walked on. Cobwebs hanging between tree trunks, still holding dew diamonds, sometimes clung to them; their footfalls sent a rabbit scurrying …
‘… to Watership Down,’ Falco laughed.
‘How’s the cat?’
‘She missed you.’
‘And you?’
‘Need you ask?’
They came into a clearing no larger than the living room at Whispering Corner, walled with willow herb and dappled with sunlight falling through the overhanging boughs.
‘James, I’m back … if you want me.’
‘Yes.’
They kissed, cautiously at first, then fiercely, and then — and neither would have been able to say afterwards how it happened — they were together in the long soft grass. Falco’s fingers plucked at the buttons of her shirt while her hands unfastened his belt, and then they were making love more fiercely than ever before. It was their own exorcism of loneliness and mistrust; it was a celebration of their finding each other again, and Falco was filled with such sensual strength that it seemed he could ride her for ever — until she moaned her climax through clenched teeth and he shuddered and lay still on top of her, too spent to stir for a long moment.
When he made the effort to release her from his weight she traced the tips of her fingers across his face.
‘Hello,’ she murmured. ‘I’m home again.’
‘To stay?’
‘Yes. Come the three corners of the world in arms and we shall shock them, my darling.’
I was exhausted as I pushed the Olympia away.
I had written it. Its quality as a piece of prose did not matter. If I had unconsciously caused things to happen by creating them in my imagination and putting them down on paper, then I was now consciously using that power to influence events for my benefit.
In the past few weeks aspects of Ashley’s life had mirrored the life of my fictitious heroine; her arrival in the storm, the love-making scene so accurate that she believed it had been written after the event — and now out of desperation I had depicted her return to Whispering Corner.
*
When I rose, having completed my chapter, and went to my bedroom I actually stumbled with exhaustion. Having sat in a cramped position all day and half the night my Abu Sabbah aches had returned remorselessly, but there was more to it than that. I was drained emotionally. I had lived the last scene I had written; in my fantasy it had been Ashley who had returned to me, and when my characters had made love among the trees it had been I who had taken Ashley in my arms.
Rather like my character William Fortune — I had to admit — I was trying to manipulate events through a recondite connection between the product of my imagination and reality. Of course when fact had followed fiction it was not exactly as I had envisaged it; it was as though once the process had been set in motion it could evolve independently, as my unwitting creation of the phantom Sir Richard Elphick proved.
Thus I did not expect Ashley to come back in exactly the same circumstances as those in which Lorna had returned to Whispering Corner, but I believed it was now likely that we would meet again. I was suddenly oppressed by the hazard of playing at God. As a novelist I was used to the game, creating characters and landscapes and situations at my whim to suit the needs of the story, but for the first time I was writing a scenario for a living individual. What right had I to do that? It could hardly be correct to treat Ashley as a character …
For one panicky minute I considered tearing up the pages, but then felt that any risk was worth taking if it gave us the opportunity of renewing our love affair.
It was fatigue which released me from the conflicting thoughts teasing my tired mind. I remember nothing more until I woke still fully dressed the next morning.
For the next two days I worked steadily on the build-up to William Fortune’s psychic experiment in the cellar. Falco and Lorna re-establish their old relationship unaware of how the medium plans to exploit Whispering Corner and in doing so put them all at risk. The words came well and I was encouraged, when I trekked to the village shop for coffee and a few groceries, to send a post card depicting St Mary’s Church to my agent telling her that she could look forward to the typescript of the novel ‘in the near future’.
On the morning of the next day I had an appointment in London to see the solicitor who was to represent me in court. As I shaved off several days’ growth of beard, which I could have passed off as ‘designer stubble’ had I been half my age, I saw that the bruising had gone but I was definitely looking older. The laughter lines round my eyes were losing their sense of humour, and despite the tan I had gained from the Red Sea sunshine there was something unhealthy about my skin. Was this a reflection of the stress of the last few months? I had to admit that my intake of brandy probably had something to do with it.
When the novel and the court case were behind me I would get back into shape, I promised myself. Unfortunately I had made many such promises before, only to find that the time came and went and the circumstances of life somehow remained the same.
But this time I added, as hope sprung eternal, I would do it out of consideration for Ashley.
In London I had lunch with Paul Lincoln at the unlikely sounding Champagne Chinese Restaurant off Tottenham Court Road, and then we went on to see Swan, Floyd and Company. Here Mr Swan himself took notes and referred to papers with a comforting expression on his avuncular features which didn’t change when he said, ‘Oh dear, it does look as though the bank’s going to screw you.’
I parroted my cri de coeur. ‘But why just me? Why don’t they go for Nixon?’
‘They’ll get judgement against him, but from the sound of things they won’t take it further.’
‘But that’s not justice!’
Mr Swan’s smile increased. ‘When you get involved in litigation you soon see there’s a difference between justice and the law,’ he said drily. ‘You have a house unencumbered by the claims of a spouse and children, so you are the natural target.’
‘But I understand we can force Nixon to pay half,’ Paul said.
‘Oh, yes, but it’s unlikely we could get an order for him to do so until after Mr Northrop has cleared the whole debt.’
‘But couldn’t we try?’
‘Of course. I’ll send him a very strong letter demanding that he honours his responsibility as managing director and major shareholder, etc., etc., and threatening all sorts of nasties if he doesn’t. Perhaps it’ll have some effect.’
I was depressed as I drove back to Dorset. The meeting had brought me back to the reality of my situation after several days of escape in the make-believe world of the author.
But the gloom vanished when I reached Whispering Corner. Ashley was waiting for me.
*
The reunion with Ashley was nothing like that between Falco and Lorna. There was no walk up the church path and no grappling in a woodland glade; I entered the house and found her curled up on the living room sofa in front of the fireplace, and I remembered that she had a key. A book was open on the rug, one of my earlier novels which she had taken from the bookcase, and she was sound asleep.
I did not wake her, but went to the kitchen to make toast and a pot of tea. I needed time to calm the excitement of knowing that my experiment had worked — it had damn well worked!
A few minutes later I carried in the tea tray and touched her gently on the shoulder.
‘Tea, m’lady.’
Watching
her open her eyes and begin to stretch lazily, it would have been easy to imagine that she had never been away from Whispering Corner.
Suddenly she became wide awake and swung herself into a sitting position.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Can’t you do better than that?’
‘Hi, Jon.’
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Oh, great!’
It was banal. I suppose there should have been recriminations and explanations, protestations and declarations, but real life is more prosaic than prose and I simply poured her out a cup of tea.
‘How’s the novel coming?’
‘Very well this last few days. There’s a good chance I may still deliver on time.’
‘Wonderful. You obviously work better when you’re on your own.’
‘And you? Been doing the round of theatrical agents?’
‘No. I moved in with a couple of Kiwi girls in Fulham. I saw their ad in Overseas Visitor. It’s just temporary, until I get a cheapo flight to Auckland. How’s Mrs Foch?’
‘She’ll be in her basket in my study. She seems to like it best there. Hoddy cut her tail off.’
‘What?’
‘Poor chap had a brainstorm.’
‘He never liked Mrs Foch. Can I go up and see her?’
‘You don’t have to ask, Ash.’
‘Sorry. It all seems a bit unreal.’
When Ashley came down from visiting the cat her eyes looked suspiciously moist and I guessed it was not entirely on account of Mrs Foch.
‘Perhaps you’d like to get out of this place for a bit,’ I said. ‘How about coming for a walk to the Chequers? We always intended to go for a drink there …’
‘Jonathan, why the bloody hell can’t you be human! Call me all the bitches under the sun if you want to, yell at me for running out on you! I can’t take this let’s-pretend-nothing-happened-would-you-like-another-cup-of-tea crap.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Or don’t you care any more?’
‘I care,’ I said sombrely. ‘I know you believed you had every reason to be angry, but why didn’t you have it out with me?’
‘Because I always run away,’ Ashley answered with a sob. ‘There’s something about me that when things go wrong I just have to run. I ran away from New Zealand, I ran away from Sydney and I ran away from Abu Sabbah. I must have an escapist complex. I saw a psychotherapist about it once but I ran away from her. Anyway, you can’t blame your parents for everything; you have to grow up some day!’
‘But if you felt like that in Abu Sabbah, why are you here?’
I hoped the intensity of my interest in her reply did not show.
‘It took a lot of courage-up-plucking. I felt dreadful when I got back to England, ashamed of myself for running yet again, furious with you for using our … our intimacy as copy for your bloody novel, and miserably lonely. I just wanted to get back to a life I could cope with, so I decided to go back home. Then yesterday I just knew I had to come and see you — and say goodbye to Whispering Corner. I tried to fight the idea but I felt that something was forcing me to make the journey. This morning I gave in, and here I am. I suppose I somehow wanted to clear the air before I left England. You see, I really did fall in love with you very deeply until I found that all the time you had been using me as a guinea-pig — almost to copying down the words I used, damn you! She was silent for a minute.
‘In your line of literature you must have seen the movie The Shining,’ she continued in a voice she was having trouble in keeping under control.
‘I saw The Shining.’
‘Good. Remember the scene where the wife looks at the novel her husband is supposed to be typing and realizes he’s insane because he’s just repeated the same phrase hundreds and hundreds of times? Well, I felt the same sort of shock when I opened your novel. No wonder you hadn’t wanted me to read it.’
‘Ashley,’ I said. ‘I’ll admit that after I’d met you, I changed my heroine’s hair from long blond to short dark curls — that was meant as a sort of compliment to you — but the description which upset you so much was written before you came to Whispering Corner. The description of the motor accident which brought you — I mean the heroine — into the story was actually first written when I was still living in London.’
‘I know you’re mad about coincidences, but you can’t expect me to believe that. Why not be honest and admit that like most authors you borrow from life?’
‘Because it’s true. Something very strange has been happening here.’
‘I agree there. At least I don’t blame you for the haunting.’
‘Perhaps that’s just what you should blame me for.’
‘Now it’s riddle time?’
‘Let me try to explain,’ I said. ‘Possibly it’s something to do with the house. The fact is that since I’ve been here what I’ve written seems to come to pass; not exactly, of course, but near enough to be very very scary. And I can prove it.’
I went on to remind her how I had used Mary Lawson’s ‘Narration’ about events at Whispering Corner as the basis for the ghostly manifestations in my novel, only to find that these ghosts really were haunting Whispering Corner. ‘Now,’ I said, taking Henry Gotobed’s letter from a drawer. ‘Read this.’
She read it twice, frowning. ‘Then Whispering Corner shouldn’t have been haunted because Sir Richard Elphick had nothing to do with this place. Then what …’
‘What we saw was the result of me thinking up those ghosts to put in the novel. In some way they became real.’
She looked thoughtful and read the letter again.
‘OK, you write things and then they happen,’ she said. ‘I can’t understand it, but then I don’t understand how a television set works and I still see a picture. But for now I just want an answer to one question. Did you write a scene in your book in which your heroine comes back to Whispering Corner after running away?’
I felt the words coming to deny it and then I choked them back. If there was to be any future with Ashley there could be no deceits. I knew I had to tell her the truth, even if it meant there was a danger of losing her again.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Three nights ago I was missing you so badly that I wrote that scene in the hope that …’
I could not finish the sentence because Ashley flung her arms round my neck.
‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ she cried. ‘It shows you still want me.’
*
Ashley had missed the paragraphs in the international news sections on the bomb outrage in Abu Sabbah, and this gave us something neutral to discuss. It was as though having talked about what had happened in the past — and I could not help wondering how much she believed my explanation — the future remained taboo. Having see her again in this familiar setting I wanted nothing more than to carry on where we had left off, but I had the sense to realize that it would not be as straightforward as I wished.
When the clock chimed twelve Ashley looked at me in mock dismay. ‘Oh, dear, my carriage has turned into a pumpkin.’
‘You weren’t thinking of getting a train back to London tonight, were you?’
‘I was originally, but …’
‘Too late now.’
‘I didn’t realize how tempus was fugiting.’
‘Anyway, you belong here,’ I said impulsively.
Ashley drew a deep breath and looked up at me from the floor where she was sitting in the lotus position. ‘I don’t know how to say this without sounding stupid but … but do you mind if we don’t sleep together tonight?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘I think it’s difficult to take up where we left off immediately.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want you. Believe me, I care for you as much as ever, only I’m still confused about everything. When we come together again I want it to be with no reservations. Oh, it’s not you, Jonathan, it’s bloody life.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Take your time. When you’ve been here a little while I’m sure you’ll feel better.’
�
�Yes. Despite the ghosts I love this old place.’
I took her up to the spare bedroom, made sure she had everything she needed and kissed her goodnight.
*
On waking the next morning my mind immediately began to churn over the events of the previous day.
Remembering my visit to the solicitors I experienced a return of the old familiar panic about the debt to the bank, and to quell it I threw myself out of bed and began the routine of the day. Because of Ashley I shaved, combed my hair carefully and put on fresh clothing. By the time the aroma of coffee was in my nostrils the gloom and doom that can assail one on waking was starting to fade. I had work waiting for me in the study and at the moment it was of paramount importance.
Seeing Ashley, when I took a tray with toast and coffee into her room, further dispelled depression.
‘How kind of you to bring breakfast,’ she said between yawns. ‘What time is it?’
‘You should know that time stops ticking in the enchanted domain,’ I said. ‘Lie in for as long as you like and catch up on your rest.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ll be in the study weaving the fates of my characters, like the Norns in Norse mythology.’
‘As long as it’s only your characters … I think I’ll go for a walk in the woods later. It looks a lovely day outside.’
‘Take a mac or an umbrella. This is a rare season for sudden thunderstorms.’
‘Jonathan?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for being understanding last night. I’m sure things will come right in a little while.’
Her words were reassuring and I left her on that note, not wishing to enter into a discussion on the psychology of our relationship. Too often one can talk things out of existence.
Upstairs I looked over the last few pages I had written to catch the flavour of the last scene, and then set to work. In their happiness at being together again Falco and Lorna remain unaware of the menace that is growing about them as a result of William Fortune’s activities. While he protests that he is working to clear the house of its malign inheritance from Sir Richard Elphick, in reality he does all he can to encourage the paranormal manifestations, thereby endangering the occupants. Using his aggressive charm, and stressing how much unpaid time and effort he and his circle are devoting to the case, he tries to talk Falco into allowing him to hold a séance which will culminate with the excavation in the wine cellar.
Whispering Corner Page 29