by Georgia Hill
‘No,’ Rachel answered, taken aback at his casual assumption. She repeated it a little more firmly. ‘No. I don’t feel it’s haunted exactly, but there’s a very strong…’ she stopped, too embarrassed to continue.
‘Well, she was a very characterful woman, in many senses of the word. So I believe, I never had the pleasure of meeting her, to my regret. Those who did say she grasped any opportunity that came her way, even when she was very old. Such a vibrant woman, by all accounts. So eager to taste all that life offered. Such a positive attitude. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a little something of her lingered, shall we say? An essence, perhaps?’
‘You don't think I’m completely mad, then?’
Roger patted her hand in avuncular fashion and then rose to pour more coffee. ‘Not at all, dear girl. And I’m sure, if it is her, she means you no harm. I don’t think she was like that in life, so there’s no reason to assume she would be vindictive in death.’ He turned to Neil. ‘We’ve heard of much stranger things happening in houses, haven’t we?’
‘Indeed we have.’ Neil smiled at Rachel. ‘I hear you found something in the house? Some papers or letters? No wonder you have the lady on your mind.’ He held out his cup for a refill.
Rachel looked at the two men. They were being so kind, so understanding.
‘Oh yes,’ Roger rubbed his hands together in glee and sat back down. ‘Do tell. I was so sorry I couldn’t give you more time when you rang up the other day. We had a rush on. Most unlike us.’ With this he gestured to the empty office. ‘Have you managed to read much of the contents?’
Rachel gave a brief version of what she’d read so far. They were a good audience and hung on every word with apparent fascination. She warmed to her theme. ‘So it’s the story of her life, as far as I can tell. There are bits of her diary, letters and postcards and, most exciting of all, what looks to be an attempt at a memoir.’
Neil leaned forward, his blue eyes aglow. ‘What a thing to find. If it was me, I wouldn’t be able to resist reading the whole thing through in one fell swoop!’
Rachel gave him a rueful look. ‘If I had the time, I don’t suppose I’d be able to either, but there have been other things for me to do at Clematis Cottage. And I have to work too.’
‘Well, of course. Silly of me to suggest otherwise. But it’s a discovery and a half, isn’t it? That’s for sure. What are you going to do with it?’
‘Yes, my dear,’ Roger echoed. ‘What are planning on doing with it? It must have some wonderful stuff in it. Think of what she lived through. She was over a hundred when she died, you know. She lived through two world wars, the invention of the motor car and the aeroplane, the atom bomb and the computer.’
‘Oh no, you’ve got him started now,’ Neil said but fondly.
Roger chuckled. He seemed a chuckling sort of a man. ‘Be a shame to let it go unrecorded somehow. Now, what could you do with it, I wonder?’
‘Aren’t you some sort of writer?’ Neil interrupted the older man.
‘No, illustrator.’ Rachel shook her head.
‘Shame.’
‘There is an idea…’ she began, as if to voice it aloud would make her do it. ‘Someone suggested I try to put something together of Hetty’s writing and illustrate it.’ There, it was out in the open now. She might well have to give it serious thought. And Gabe was right, Hetty would have jumped at the chance.
‘Oh, I say!’ Roger said. ‘Sounds marvellous.’
‘Sounds eminently workable.’ Neil said. ‘Might well be mileage in it.’
She looked at them in gratitude and gave up a little prayer for Gabe’s suggestion.
‘And, if you want any help putting it together, then I’d be only too happy to oblige,’ Neil added.
‘That’s really kind of you.’ Rachel said, unwilling to be rushed. ‘I’ll need to think it through a bit first, though. Oh, look at the time!’ She glanced at the office clock and drained her cup. ‘I must go, I’ve someone coming to see me at two.’
Thanking them for their hospitality, she promised she’d visit again soon. She half ran to where she’d parked her car, her mind on fire with possibilities. The idea of the book could work … it just could.
‘You never know, Hetty,’ she said, as she turned the key in the ignition, ‘we could be on to something with this. Here’s to a long, and hopefully, fruitful relationship!’
Chapter 10
Rachel willed her groaning car up the steep track to the cottage and parked it in a swirl of dust. Her visitor was already there, waiting.
Stan Penry was leaning against the horse chestnut tree, which dominated the parking space in front of Clematis Cottage. He was enjoying some shade and a cigarette.
Rachel stared at him for a moment, preparing what she wanted to say to him. She’d found it surprisingly easy having Gabe around, which was just as well as he often was. To have yet another stranger invading her privacy might be a step too far. She wanted to be alone, so she could be the person she really wanted to be, not beholden to whatever others forced her into being.
On the other hand, she thought, ruefully, looking at the overgrown front garden, she could really do with the help.
She pondered on what Gabe had told her about the old man. Stan was seventy-three and recently widowed. He lived with his son and daughter-in-law in one of the new ‘executive’ houses, which flanked the church, in the village proper. Ripped away from his beloved ramshackle cottage and smallholding by well-meaning relatives, who worried he wouldn’t cope on his own, he’d been given a home in their magnolia-painted modern house. Stan hated it, according to Gabe, and was keen to find somewhere he could grow his fruit and vegetables while he waited for an allotment to become available. In return, Gabe had assured Rachel, Stan would be happy to do some general gardening for her.
Rachel looked at the man, drawing him with her eye. He had on a pair of those trousers of indeterminate colour and shiny fabric that elderly men adopt and a short-sleeved white shirt. He was very thin with a slight stoop and a sour expression on his face, made more so as he sucked on a roll-up.
She got out of the car and made her way over to him. ‘Hello,’ she said, cautiously, ‘you must be Mr Penry.’
Stan came away from the tree almost grudgingly. ‘Miss Makepeace?’
Rachel held out her hand and found it enveloped in a calloused and nicotine-stained grip. ‘Rachel, please.’
‘Ar. That’d be Stan, then. You got a bit o’ work for me then, like?’
‘A bit of work?’ Rachel smiled at the understatement. ‘Well, yes. If you’re interested, that is.’ Rachel pointed to the front garden, knowing perfectly well that Stan had given the place the once-over before she’d arrived. She half-hoped he’d say it was too much for him and leave her in peace. After her conversation with Roger and Neil she couldn’t wait to get back to Hetty’s story again.
‘You know what you want doing with it?’ Stan squished his cigarette between finger and thumb, fished out an old tobacco tin from his trouser pocket, placed the butt inside and immediately began to roll another.
‘Erm, no, not really,’ Rachel said, a little helplessly. This hadn’t begun well. She couldn’t ever see herself warming to this man and certainly didn’t want him prowling around her garden.
‘Mrs Lewis used to have a fine old clematis growin’ up that wall.’ Stan gestured to the side of the front door. And she had hollyhocks and suchlike growing up in front. It were a rare old sight. She liked her gardening, did old Hetty.’
Rachel stared at him in astonishment. ‘You knew her?’
Stan met her look. His eyes were full of a wicked humour. It was in direct contrast to his pinched and thin mouth.
‘Knew her a bit, like. When I was living in the village afore. Before I got married to my Eunice, that is. Never had much to do with Hetty. Bit of a loner, bit scary, like.’ Stan leaned over to Rachel and winked. ‘But me and Eunice, we used to come up here to do a bit o’ courting. We’d have a good old loo
k at the garden before she’d come out and shoo us off. Reckon she had a fancy man up here, I do. Made Eunice giggle, it did.’
For a second, Stan’s face clouded.
‘I’m sorry for your …’ God, how was one supposed to say these things and why was it so hard? ‘I’m sorry to hear about your wife.’
Stan took a deep pull on his cigarette and looked away. He cleared his throat. ‘Ar. Never enough time with the ones you love, is there?’
Thinking back later, Rachel realised it was that moment which made her decide to take Stan on. That he’d known Hetty, even at a distance, was a draw, of course, but it was that statement which did it. Unsentimentally said, but with such feeling. Such love. She was getting quite good at making snap decisions!
Instinct told her Stan would be unwilling to accept any gesture that smacked of charity. She adopted a bracing tone. ‘So, it’s a lot of work. The garden, that is. Have you – have you got any ideas about what I could do with it?’
‘Might have.’
He was obviously a man of few words. ‘Look, Stan, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’ She smiled at him.
‘Don’t mind if I do. Coffee, though.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t drink tea. I likes me a coffee. Milky, three sugars.’
‘Coffee, then,’ Rachel said slowly and wondered if he was making this deliberately difficult. Then she saw the expression in his strange yellowy-green eyes. He was teasing her. Well, in that case, she could get her own back. ‘Oh but –’ she stared pointedly at the cigarette.
Stan scowled at her. ‘You another one o’ them anti smokers? Just like my Sharon. Me daughter-in-law. She can’t abide it neither.’
‘Well, if you wouldn’t mind not smoking in the house, I’d be grateful. Come on, let’s get the kettle on and we can get going with some plans for the garden.’
And so it had been decided. Quite easily in the end. Stan would begin by clearing part of the garden for his vegetable beds; he’d share some of the produce with Rachel. In return, he was willing to get the rest of the garden into shape.
‘Might take a deal o’ time, though,’ he warned her.
Rachel didn’t mind and assured him so. It occurred to her that she was adapting to the slow pace of the way things happened around here. And what’s more, was happy about it.
‘Thank you, Gabe,’ she whispered, as she lay in bed that night. It was one more favour to chalk up to him. ‘And thank you, Hetty,’ she tried out, tentatively. There was no answer, but Rachel heard what might have been a giggle. Content that, if Hetty’s ghost was haunting the cottage, she meant no harm, she turned over to face the sigh of breeze that floated in through the open window. She heard the house settle around her and fell asleep, feeling blessed.
Chapter 11
It was one of those gifts of a summer morning, when it was a privilege to be awake with the dawn chorus.
Rachel had been woken at five by Indignant the Sparrow. The bird had got into the habit of sitting on the roof above her bedroom, cheeping loudly and, well, indignantly, until the moment she leaned out of her window and he took fright.
As she did so this morning, the view took her breath away and stole time. After heavy rainfall in the night, the sun shone, jewelling the landscape. It was a morning washed clean. After two months of living in the cottage, the trees had greened up even more, making the bucolic scene teem with life. The sky was still pale and cold, but even Rachel, with her rudimentary knowledge of weather, could tell it was going to be a wonderful day. It was shaping up to be a fantastic summer.
She pulled on her newly purchased Wellingtons and her fleece and slipped out into the magic. Making her way down the track from the cottage, she turned right down the narrow lane that led away from the rest of the village. She was surrounded by apple orchards, which enveloped her in a scent so sweet it nearly made her weep. Stopping for a moment to enjoy the sweet melancholy she leaned on a gate and stared into the field. The blossom fuzzed around the branches like so much pinky-white candy-floss. In contrast, in the next field, there was a decrepit building housing a tractor. The unploughed field was furrowed deep in red clay mud and, above, the sky had deepened to an azure blue, warm with promise. Beauty and dereliction side by side. Swallows dive-bombed flies and then swooped under the beams of the building, popping neatly into their mud nests. It was as far removed from city life as could be imagined.
Rachel heard a light and fast tapping on the tarmac behind her and turned, expecting to see a small dog. Instead of which, she came face to face with a hare. It had an alert, inquiring expression. She and the hare stared at one another for some moments, its large, pale eyes contemplating her without fear. Then it trotted off, squeezed under the hedge on the opposite side of the road and disappeared. Rachel released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
She walked on, further down the lane, past a field of sheep. She paused again to enjoy the sight. The lambs were beyond the tiny cute stage but were still suckling, every now and again, in between grazing. Rachel could hear their teeth tearing the grass and watched as a mother bucked off a lamb attempting a cheeky suckle.
In the opposite field were some enormous cows, even Rachel recognised them as the distinctive breed that had marked Herefordshire on the world agricultural map. Big and lumbering, with red flanks that echoed the colour of the soil, their cream faces bore a sweetly vacant expression. To Rachel’s delight, they had calves with them. They trembled on unsteady legs, far too insubstantial to bear their weight. She leaned on the gate, entranced. Some of the cows spotted her and plodded over, their offspring doing a wobbling dance behind. One cow mooed ominously. Rachel backed away, suddenly very aware of their size and protective mothering instinct.
She moved on, wondering if Hetty had enjoyed walking the same lanes. It was no wonder the woman was lingering in such a beautiful place, even after death. Rachel felt even more sure Roger Foster’s words held true. It just didn’t feel right that Hetty would wish her harm. The vibes she got from the atmosphere that occasionally sprang up in the cottage were girlish, mischievous even. If Hetty wanted to stay in her old home, she supposed it was fine with her. As long as the ghost or spirit or essence, or whatever it was, didn’t mind sharing with a load of builders too.
The lane wound round in a long, slow loop and Rachel found herself back on the edge of the village coming up behind a rambling house, bearing a sign proclaiming ‘Michael Llewellyn and Son, Builders.’ She checked her watch; she’d been out longer than she thought and it was getting on for nine. Gabe had offered an open invitation to visit whenever she had time. Country people got up early, didn’t they? Perhaps it was time to test the theory.
It was a large and solid-looking house, painted white, with small-paned windows set at odd intervals across the walls. It looked as if bits had been added on over the years and wasn’t the smart, done-up building she had expected. From what Gabe had told her, the family never used the front door, so Rachel ignored it and made her way down a narrow, rutted drive to the side of the house. She squeezed past Gabe’s Toyota and a hatchback, feeling like an interloper. As she did so, a door in the house flew open and a middle-aged woman sprang out, a large bundle of letters pressed against her. She stopped and appraised Rachel, with a broad smile.
‘You must be Rachel, from old Hetty’s cottage. How do you do?’ The older woman held out her free hand and smiled. ‘Gabe and Mike have told me so much about you. It’s good to meet you at last.’
Rachel went shy. ‘Hello,’ she managed. She wondered exactly what had been said and how she had been recognised so immediately.
‘Sheila Llewellyn,’ the woman explained, although it was hardly necessary; the resemblance to her son was unmistakable. The same golden-brown hair, the same sherry- coloured eyes. ‘Now, I’m so sorry to dash off, but I must get these to the post and, if I don’t go now, I’ll miss it. Be back in a mo’, though, and I’ll get the kettle on. Mike’s out, but Gabriel’s in his
shed if you want to go on through.’ Sheila nodded her head to the back of the house, raised her hand as a goodbye and hurried off.
Rachel stared after her for a second and then made her way further along the drive to the back of the house, following the sounds of a tool being applied to wood. Some pale- brown chickens scattered before her, scolding her for the intrusion. The outbuildings rambled on in an untidy way, but the door to the one nearest the house was open. She stepped over a ginger-and-white cat lazing fatly in the doorway and stopped short as she caught sight of Gabe.
He had paused in whatever he’d been doing and was instead staring intently at a large piece of wood held in a clamp. He had his back to her, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she had a feeling an important decision was being made.
He was dressed casually, as usual, in disreputable jeans and a ragged green t-shirt, with a logo now so faded it was indecipherable. Rachel enjoyed the view for a moment. Gabe’s back was strong and well muscled, but in the way created by physical labour rather than hours put in at a gym. He had long muscles, well defined but not huge and bunchy in an off-puttingly he-man way.
Her eyes were drawn to his arms. She always liked looking at them. Sinewy and tough, the bulge of his triceps was revealed under the fraying sleeve of his t-shirt. She longed to draw him like this.
Gabe picked up a chisel and lightly tapped it on the wood. There was some pop music playing on an old Bakelite radio wedged on a dusty shelf. Dust motes spun in the sunlit air and the place hummed with the smell of sawdust.
It was wonderful.
Gabe, still unaware of his audience, tucked a length of hair behind his ear and reached sideways, bending over as he did so. He ran a long, brown thumb along the length of the wood, feeling the grain. It was a tender caress, as if he was touching a woman in that first questioning contact before making love. It made Rachel go liquid inside. She wanted to call out but couldn’t speak. She refused to break the mood. And then, just as she was beginning to feel like a voyeur, the cat got up and, after stretching, wove its way between Gabe’s legs, making him jump.