Memories of her dreams.
Memories of the past.
35
Thursday October 22nd
Emma was coming out of the wholefood shop when Mike spotted her on the other side of the road. He had just been to visit the young widow grieving for her husband, lost when the car had left the road and hit the oak tree in the fog, and he was feeling depressed and angry at the waste of yet another young life with so much to give.
‘Hi!’ He lifted a hand in greeting as Emma turned and saw him. Crossing the road, he fell in step beside her. ‘No more midnight disturbances, I hope?’
She shook her head. She was looking pale and tired. ‘My latest midnight disturbances are self-generated, I’m afraid. Nightmares.’
‘As a result of Lyndsey’s activities?’ He frowned.
She shrugged. ‘Not really. I’m probably just over-tired; doing up a house is the most exhausting job known to man – or woman. There’s always that temptation to go on and on, trying to fit in just one more thing. Even watching the builder is tiring!’
He grinned. ‘Well, would you let me buy you a coffee as an enforced ten-minute rest?’ He indicated the coffee shop two doors down the road. ‘I would really appreciate the chance to stop for a breather myself. It’s been a bad morning.’
‘Bad?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do vicars have bad mornings?’
Nodding, he opened the door and ushered her inside. ‘Oh, indeed they do. We’re glorified social workers in some ways, and sometimes things get a bit heart-breaking.’
‘I suppose so. I’m afraid if I thought about it at all I assumed that would only apply to inner-city parishes. I kind of pictured you as a cross between those wonderful rural clergymen Francis Kilvert and Gilbert White – with, after our last encounter, a touch of Father Karras out of The Exorcist thrown in!’
Mike let out a roar of laughter. ‘I wish! What a wonderful description.’ They sat down at a small table in the corner. He nodded to two ladies nearby and shook his head. ‘Oh dear. There starts the gossip. I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind being seen in public with me.’
Emma smiled. ‘I can live with it. I know so few people round here perhaps I can even qualify as a Mystery Woman. Would it add to your street cred?’
‘It certainly would.’ He glanced up and held her gaze for a moment. She looked away first.
‘So, how long have you been a vicar?’ She picked up the menu and opened it.
He grinned. ‘Technically, I’m the rector. Different animal.’
‘Really?’ She gave a disbelieving smile. ‘I thought they were the same thing.’
He shook his head. ‘Rector is a much more important chap. It’s all to do with tithes.’ He caught her eye and laughed. ‘OK. You’re right. They are interchangeable – as is that lovely word parson. And to answer your question, I’ve only been here a year. This is my first parish. I came to holy orders late in life.’
‘Late in life?’ She passed the menu on to him. ‘I would just like a coffee, please. So, what do you call late in life? You are going to tell me you are a well-preserved seventy next.’
‘Not quite!’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Let me get the coffees, and then I’ll tell you all about my strange and devious past.’
‘I started as a teacher,’ he went on as he sat down again. He had brought two coffees and two flapjacks from the counter. ‘That was a bit over-ambitious. I like kids, but not the kind I was encountering. I wanted to teach. To really teach, and all I could do was yell at them and try to keep order. They weren’t interested. So I thought I’d do something else; something that made a bit of money, a job in industry. What a revelation that was! I could afford food and even clothes.’ He grinned. She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. There was enormous good humour and compassion in his face. He must, she found herself thinking, be very popular with his congregation.
‘So, what went wrong? You found God?’
He nodded. ‘Oh, God was always there, it’s just He started to get a bit pushy and I suddenly realised that was what the teaching had been about. Right instinct. Wrong turning.’
‘It must be wonderful to find you have a vocation.’ Her voice was wistful suddenly. ‘I wonder if I’m about to find mine. As a gardener and a herbalist.’ The tone was self-mocking, but he caught the undertone of worry.
‘It is frightening to make such a huge change to one’s life, isn’t it?’ He glanced up at her again. ‘And lonely.’
It had been a shrewd guess. He saw the pain in her eyes for a moment as she bent her head to her coffee. ‘Let’s change the subject, Mike. Can I call you Mike, or should I call you “vicar” or “reverend” or something?’ She rolled the two words with an attempt at a rural burr.
‘Mike will do fine.’ He was still watching her face. She was sitting with her back to the window, a slight shadow playing over her features; her hair had tangled in the wind and the cold had touched colour into her cheeks but as he watched he saw her face change before his eyes. The hair was constrained for a moment by a white cap, her eyes narrowed and grew sharp, her wide generous mouth tightened into a snarl. He pushed his chair back sharply, jerking the coffee cups so that they slopped into their saucers.
‘Mike? What is it? What’s wrong?’
Emma was staring at him, her eyes wide. She was herself again.
He looked away and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I … I don’t know what happened. I suddenly…’ He closed his eyes. ‘Emma, I’m most frightfully sorry.’ He laughed. ‘You must think I’m mad!’ He shook his head. ‘I thought I saw someone beside you.’ He didn’t mean beside, but he could hardly tell her what he had really seen.
Emma was half smiling, intrigued. ‘A ghost?’ The idea did not seem to frighten her. ‘There seem to be lots of ghosts round here. There is one in the shop next door.’
‘Ah.’ He paused, glad to change the subject. ‘So, you know about that.’
She nodded. ‘It’s a spooky place. I went in there a couple of days ago to buy some things for the kitchen and it still feels weird.’
‘Still?’
‘I went in there on the day I first came to view my house. There were some chaps there making a film about the ghost.’
‘Mark Edmunds.’
‘You know him?’
Mike nodded. ‘He wanted me to be in the programme. The church’s view.’
‘And did you agree?’
He shook his head. ‘He’s coming up here again, I gather, to do some more filming. But if he asks me again, I’m still going to say no.’
‘You should do it. It would make it more interesting to hear what you have to say about it. Do you believe in ghosts?’
Mike looked up and held her gaze for a moment. ‘Oh yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I believe in ghosts.’
Anxiously, she scanned his face. ‘That sounded heartfelt.’
‘It was.’ For a moment he was tempted to tell her what had happened to him in the shop, but he thought better of it. He shrugged. ‘Sorry. That’s part of the job, too.’
‘So, off limits?’
‘ ’Fraid so.’
‘Being your confidante is quite tricky, isn’t it.’ Suddenly her eyes were sparkling again. ‘What can you talk about? If I’m going to be the femme fatale in your life we’ve got to talk closely and animatedly about something.’ She rested her chin in her hand, tapping her fingernails gently against her teeth. The look was nothing if not provocative. ‘You could ask me to do the church flowers.’
His face broke into a smile. ‘Unfortunately you would have to go on a waiting list.’
‘You’re kidding!’ She was genuinely astonished.
‘No. There are lots of ladies lining up to do the flowers.’
‘So, you’re in big demand?’
‘Of course.’
‘Surely you’ve got a gorgon of a wife to chase us all away?’
‘Unfortunately not. Or perhaps, fortunately.’ He laughed. ‘Actually I do have a gorgon, but
she’s not wife material.’ He paused. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Please forget it!’
‘Deeply unchristian thought, eh?’
He laughed softly. Tearing his eyes away from her face he reached for his coffee cup. ‘Going back to the subject of ghosts, do you mind if I suggest you don’t go near that churchyard? I don’t think any of us should be there and it worries me.’
‘Bad vibes?’
He nodded. ‘Exactly.’
‘I wasn’t planning on going there.’
‘Good.’ Standing up, he pushed back his chair. ‘I’m going to have to go. I’ve enjoyed our brief encounter, Miss Dickson.’
‘Emma, please! After all, I am your mystery woman.’
‘Emma.’ For a moment he hesitated and she wondered if he were going to shake her hand or kiss her cheek. He did neither. Briefly he touched her shoulder and then he had gone.
36
Friday October 23rd
‘Emma, it’s gorgeous!’ Flora had arrived unannounced, drawing up in her old bright green Volkswagen Beetle as Emma was preparing to go shopping. ‘I had no idea it was going to be so pretty.’ She was exploring, darting first into the living room, then into the kitchen, examining every corner. She turned and gave Emma a hug, then retrieved her basket from the hall. ‘Here. Pressies. I wasn’t sure what you were going to need so I brought you lots of stuff!’
There was a pretty pottery oil burner, a Flaming Katy pot plant, a bottle of mead, a ping pong ball for the cats and an electric-blue fringed silk shawl for Emma – or more likely for a chair!
‘Why on earth didn’t you ring?’ Emma was overwhelmed by her friend’s enthusiasm.
‘Spur of the moment. I had two cancellations, so no work today and I thought, why not! You don’t mind, do you?’ The huge green eyes were suddenly worried.
‘Of course not. It’s just …’ Emma paused. ‘Piers is coming down tomorrow.’
Flora grimaced. ‘So?’
‘So, I can’t ask you to stay.’
‘Oh, sweetie! I wasn’t going to! Besides,’ Flora hesitated. ‘You never told me it was haunted.’
Emma stared at her.
‘You did know?’ Flora caught her hand. ‘I felt it as soon as I came through the door.’
‘Yes.’ Emma sank into a chair. ‘I did know. I’ve never seen her, but I know there is someone here.’
‘And you’re not scared?’ Flora scanned her face anxiously.
‘No.’
‘Good. There’s no need.’ Flora glanced round the room ‘She’s pleased you’re here.’
Emma smiled. This kind of talk was one of the eccentricities of Flora’s that she used to smile at tolerantly. Suddenly it no longer seemed eccentric. On the contrary. It seemed normal. ‘I know and I’m glad. I love it here so much.’
Except for the nightmares. She bit her lip. ‘How could you tell it was haunted?’
‘Same as you, I expect.’ Flora grinned. ‘Some people can sense these things easily, others –’ she leaned forward and punched Emma playfully on the shoulder – ‘take longer to get round to it. Right.’ She sat down and reaching for her bag, she produced three small bottles of essential oil and a box of matches. ‘Here, I wasn’t sure if you had any oils left. Let’s light the burner. Lavender and rosemary. And juniper. They give protection. Cleansing. This was a witch’s house, yes?’ She glanced up for a fraction of a second, then concentrated once more on counting drops of oil onto the water in the burner.
‘How did you know that?’
‘Didn’t you tell me?’
‘No.’
Flora shrugged. ‘She was a good witch. She must have been. The vibes are nice. Most of them.’ She glanced back through the door towards the hall with a slight frown.
Emma raised an eyebrow, half amused, half wary. ‘Most? Not all? Is that why you don’t want to spend the night?’
For a moment Flora didn’t answer. She lit the night-light under the oils and pushed the burner to the centre of the table.
‘There is something uncomfortable here, Em. Someone – something – is hovering. It’s probably nothing significant.’
She spotted Min on the window sill outside and jumped to her feet. ‘Show me the garden, Em. I am so envious of you. I’m tempted to throw up London, you know, and come and help you with your herb garden.’
‘Really?’ Emma tried to push the thought of something hovering out of her head.
‘Really.’ Flora followed her out into the garden. ‘So, Piers is coming?’ She fixed Emma with a disapproving glare. ‘Does he come often?’
‘The first visit.’ Emma shrugged.
‘But he’s out of your life?’
Emma shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. He might like it here.’
‘Oh, get real, Em. This is deeply, deeply not Piers.’ Flora waved her arms expansively. Then she shivered. ‘You know, there is something odd about this place, Em. Someone is watching us, someone impatient for me to leave.’
Emma forced a laugh. ‘Stop it. You’re scaring me! Listen, come shopping. I’ve got to buy lots of goodies for the weekend and we’ll go to The Crown and grab some lunch. How about that? Take you away from all this atmosphere.’
‘She won’t like Piers, Em. She won’t want him here. You must be careful.’ Flora caught her hand.
‘Who won’t like him? Stop it, Flora.’
Flora shrugged. ‘Sorry. I can’t help it.’ She gave a last glance round and turned back towards the house. ‘Right. Shopping it is. And the pub sounds good, too!’
37
Saturday October 24th
Through the open kitchen window Emma could hear the thin melancholy song of the robin sitting on top of the wall of the old wash-house. She paused for a moment in her chores, listening. That was one of the most beautiful and the saddest sounds in nature. It meant goodbye to the summer and the warmth and beauty of the sunshine and the flowers and heralded the start of winter. She found herself shivering in spite of the warmth of the bright room with its Aga. Flora’s visit had unsettled her.
She could hardly believe it when Piers had agreed to come. When she phoned him and explained about the dinner invitation from the Wests, she had expected a cold rejection. Instead he had seemed pleased, relieved even, to hear from her and he arrived at half past twelve with flowers, two bottles of wine, a woven tapestry throw from Heals as a housewarming present and two packets of cat treats for the ecstatically purring Max and Min.
‘So, how is country life?’ He poured them each a glass of wine and sat down at the pine table as she filled saucepans with water and juggled her heavy earthenware dishes between ovens.
‘It’s good, Piers. I’m enjoying it.’ She pushed her hair out of her eyes and accepted a glass from him.
‘Any sign of a job?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘In the spring. By then I’ll have the herb garden ready to roll.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing this.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Emma Dickson with soil under her fingernails doling out flower pots at two ninety-nine a pop.’
‘I won’t starve, Piers.’ She glanced at him crossly. ‘David is giving me some freelance work. I’m on-line. I get the FT delivered by a boy on a bike from the village every morning. If the plants don’t sell, and I feel I’m getting hungry I’ll set up as a financial adviser or maybe I’ll go and work in a shop or write a book.’ She smiled and leaned forward to give his arm a playful punch. ‘I will be fine. And you could always come and be a commuter and support me.’ She meant it as a joke.
He frowned and looked away, making a sudden fuss of Min who had leaped onto his lap and was crooning as she rubbed her head against his chin.
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean that last bit. It wasn’t supposed to be a serious option.’ She took a large gulp of wine.
‘Good,’ he replied softly. ‘Because it isn’t an option. Sorry.’
She put on a CD to ease them over the silences as they ate, the soft sad cadences of piano and sax backed from time to
time by the thin song of the robin accompanying her soup, homemade bread and cheese and the fresh fruit salad. ‘I’m sure we’ll have a big meal this evening. So, shall we go and walk by the river? Visit the art gallery? Go and feed the swans?’ It was strange having to plan the day, to entertain him, to realise that here, he didn’t belong.
They enjoyed their walk. He bought her a pretty dish from the pottery studio on the quay, they strolled along the river towards Manningtree and up into the town, then home. It was seven thirty when they climbed into her car and headed towards Bradfield.
Alex and Paula lived in a modern, ranch-style house at the end of a long gravelled drive. It overlooked open farmland which, in the dark, was bleak and featureless beneath the sweep of their headlights.
Emma pulled the car up near the front door and switched off the engine. She gave Piers a wink. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
The house was warm and bright and full of music. Alex greeted them cordially and led the way into an open-plan living room at one end of which the table was laid for four. No other guests, then.
‘Paula will be down in a sec.’ He busied himself getting their drinks. ‘And meanwhile meet the sprogs. Come and say hello, kids.’
‘Daddy says you’ve got two cats.’ Sophie gazed at Emma earnestly. ‘Mummy won’t let us have any pets.’
‘Now, that’s not entirely true, Soph.’ Alex frowned. He handed a glass to Emma.
‘It is true. I always speak the truth!’ The child’s expression was very serious. She had a pale, pretty face with huge dark eyes. Long red-blonde hair was held off her forehead by an Alice band. ‘I wanted a kitten and a puppy and a pony for my last three birthdays and I didn’t get any of them.’