Freddie locked the car. He put the keys in his pocket then headed back down the road to where a footpath was marked on the map.
Head down, collar pulled up, Freddie trudged down the hill. The wind boxed his ears. The rain drove into the back of his neck, his back, his knees. His tweed trousers were soaking wet and flapped against his legs. The world seemed to have turned to water. Everything shimmered silver, with not a dry patch of land or tree in sight. Although the wind was easing a little and Freddie had not heard thunder for some minutes, the rain was still falling, fast and furious. It bounced over the surface of the road like sparks from a firework.
Freddie sighed. His troubles were far from over. But, the truth was, he was glad to be alive.
Chapter Four
Apart from the odd trail of smoke from the valley below, there were no signs of human life at all. Nothing but trees and rocks and the sound of the rain.
After a while, Freddie found the path that appeared to lead off down through the woods. It was steep and overgrown, but wide enough for two people to walk side by side.
The rain was still falling but the branches of the trees gave him some shelter. As he walked, he could make out ruts left by the wheels of a cart and the hooves of a donkey or maybe an ox. His spirits lifted a little more. At least someone had passed this way before.
Soon, he found himself standing at the cross-roads of two paths. To the left, there was a feeling of neglect and stillness. The trees and evergreen bushes dripped with rain. Everything smelled sodden, wet. Oak leaves lay on the ground. The sharp needles of the fir trees bowed low over it.
The right-hand path was much steeper, but more direct. It plunged straight down the mountainside rather than running in a zigzag.
Freddie looked down at his leather shoes. The tips were stained dark and water was seeping in through the soles. He thought of his sturdy hiking boots left in his little car, then sighed. There was nothing to be done.
He took the right hand path. It had a lonely feel to it. There were no fresh wheel tracks. There was no sign that the leaves on the ground had been disturbed, no sense that anyone had recently passed this way. Even the air seemed colder. The going got rougher. Stones, uneven earth and fallen branches tumbled from the overgrown bushes on either side.
Freddie felt as if the mountain was closing in upon him. Shock had set in and his relief had faded. Now, the woods seemed strangely silent. No birds sang, no rabbits or foxes or mice moved in the undergrowth.
‘A place of ghosts,’ he muttered.
An April mist was now setting in, creeping up without warning. Freddie sped up. He started to imagine shapes, outlines, behind every tree. Once or twice he even turned round, sure that someone or something was watching him from the dark forest around him.
There was nothing there. No one.
Finally, the land levelled out. Freddie found himself standing on a patch of flat ground that looked down over a picture-postcard village. His eye was caught by a twist of grey smoke. He narrowed his gaze and looked more closely. Houses, dwellings, fires burning. Freddie gave a sigh of relief. He had made it.
Now he could pick out a cluster of red-tiled roofs, half shrouded in the mist. Freddie was cold and hungry and his legs felt as if they might give way under him at any moment. But now he was almost there, he felt a burst of energy and picked up his pace. In his mind he could already hear the comforting clatter of the cafés and bars, the rattling of plates in the kitchens, the sound of human voices.
Freddie walked fast across the wet ground towards a small stone bridge in the far corner of the field. As he crossed over, Freddie glanced down to the stream below. The water was racing, lapping against the underside of the bridge and splashing up over the banks.
Then, in the distance, Freddie heard the thin tolling of a church bell. The mournful single note was carried on the wind to where he stood listening. He counted the chimes.
He raised his eyebrows. Four o’clock. The last he remembered, the clock on the dashboard of the car was at two. Freddie listened until the last echo of the bell had died away then carried on across a second field covered with tiny blue and pink mountain flowers, like confetti scattered in a churchyard after a wedding. Around the edge of the field, poppies grew tall and bright red, like splashes of blood.
At last, Freddie reached the outskirts of the village. A white mist hung like a veil over everything, skimming the tops of the houses and buildings. The grass under his feet gave way to a track wide enough for a cart to pass along. The surface was muddy after the rain, the colour of gingerbread.
He came to a small wooden sign set at the side of the road.
He read the name of the village out loud. ‘Larzat.’
Chapter Five
Freddie walked slowly into the village. He passed a few low buildings that looked like stores or animal pens. Then, as he got closer to the centre, the houses began.
Even allowing for the storm, the village seemed oddly empty. Nothing seemed to be open. Once he thought he heard footsteps in the distance, muffled by the mist. Once he thought he heard the bleating of sheep. But when he listened again, all was quiet.
The state of the road got better, the buildings more grand, the further he went. The larger houses had laurel trees in wide wooden planters outside their doors. But, still, he saw no one. No signs of day-to-day life. All the shops were boarded up and the wooden shutters firmly bolted.
Heavy, metal-framed gas lamps were set into the walls. The flames cast a weak yellow glow. But although the mist had lifted a little, there was something about the dusk, the stillness and the lack of life that made Freddie feel as if he had stepped into an old-fashioned photograph. He half expected to see gentlemen in old-fashioned coats and top hats walking past. Or nursemaids pushing babies in prams. Or little girls with their hair in ribbons and boys in sailor suits playing with wooden spinning tops.
Without warning, a memory of a family photograph came into his mind. It was the last one taken of them all together. His mother was seated, her long skirts spread out around her. He, a boy of ten, stood next to her. Their father, smart in his wing collar and black moustache, stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder. George, fine in his uniform, stood on the other side of his mother.
They were all smiling.
Freddie took a deep breath. George. It was more than ten years since his brother had gone missing. Freddie’s dreams were still haunted by him, but he thought of George less often as the years went by. It was odd his brother was so much on his mind this afternoon.
‘A place of ghosts,’ he said again under his breath.
Freddie arrived at the small square in the centre of the village. It was bordered on three sides by buildings and lined by trees with silver bark. In the centre there was a stone well with high sides and, in one corner, a water trough for animals. Beside it he saw a small café with a yellow and white striped awning. It, too, was shut, the chairs were tipped forward against the round metal tables. A small church occupied most of the southern side of the square, with a single bell set high in the wall.
As his gaze moved around the square, Freddie found what he was looking for: a modest guest house, plain but respectable-looking. He walked over and up the three stone steps leading to a wide wooden door. A board above the door gave the names of the owners, Mr and Mrs Galy. Another sign stuck in the window, this one handwritten, said there were vacancies.
A brass bell hung on the wall. Freddie raised his hand to pull the rope when, suddenly, something made him pause. He had a prickling feeling on the back of his neck. He felt as if hidden eyes were watching him from behind the shutters and windows, the same feeling he’d had in the woods.
Freddie glanced behind him. Again, there was no one there.
‘Pull yourself together,’ he said to himself.
Freddie took off his hat, straightened his jacket, then rang the bell. At once, he heard footsteps behind the door. Moments later, it was opened by an old man in a flat-collared shirt, a
waistcoat and heavy brown country trousers. His face was weather-beaten, lined by the years. White hair framed his face. Freddie guessed he must be Mr Galy, the owner.
‘Yes?’
In halting French, Freddie asked if there was a room available for the night and tried to explain about the accident. Mr Galy at first said nothing, then shouted down the corridor. A stout, middle-aged woman dressed in black from head to toe appeared. Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she came towards them.
Mrs Galy spoke some English, at least enough for Freddie to be able to explain how his car was stranded in the mountains above the village. She nodded. Then after a rattling conversation with her husband, too fast for Freddie to follow, said there was a local mechanic who could help.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Not this afternoon?’
Mrs Galy shook her head. ‘It’s too late. It will be dark soon. Tomorrow.’
Freddie shivered, suddenly aware of how cold he was. The cut on his forehead had started to ache. He felt very tired, bone-weary.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow will be fine.’
Chapter Six
Freddie followed Mrs Galy down the long and narrow corridor.
Candles set in black iron holders on the walls flickered as they passed. The movement sent strange shadows dancing up to the ceiling. It was very quiet for a boarding house. There was no sound of conversation, not even any sound of the servants going about their duties.
‘Are there other guests?’ he asked.
Mrs Galy appeared not to hear him.
She stopped in front of a high wooden desk at the foot of the stairs. Freddie could smell the beeswax polish. The wood gleamed in the light from an oil lamp that sat on the counter top. She took a large, brass key from the row of hooks on the wall.
‘This way,’ she said.
Freddie followed her up the tiled staircase to a room on the second floor. Mrs Galy turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door and stood back for Freddie to walk in first.
He glanced around. It was plain, but pleasant and clean. Two tall windows, floor to ceiling, filled one side of the room. An old-fashioned bed with a brass bedstead stood against the left-hand wall. Beside it was a wooden bedside table. On the opposite side of the room, a gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall above a heavy chest of drawers. On the top sat a large white china bowl and matching jug.
‘I could do with a bath,’ he said, ‘if that’s not too much trouble. To warm up.’
Mrs Galy nodded. ‘At the end of the landing,’ she said. ‘I will send up the maid with hot water and something for your head, yes?’
‘My head?’
‘You are hurt,’ she said, pointing to the mirror. ‘See?’
Freddie peered into the looking-glass and saw the trickles of dry blood and the patchwork of tiny cuts. He had not realised quite what a sight he looked.
‘I hit my head when the car crashed,’ he said.
Mrs Galy made to leave.
‘Actually, there is one more thing,’ Freddie added. ‘I need to send word to my friends. They are in Quillan. I was due to meet them tonight. Is there a telegraph office? Or do you have a telephone, perhaps?’
‘In the next town, yes. Not here.’
Freddie’s heart sank.
‘But if you care to write a message,’ she said, pointing at the desk in the corner of the room, ‘I will send a boy in the morning.’
‘Thank you.’
Mrs Galy nodded. ‘If you leave your clothes outside the door, I will see they are washed and dried for the morning. I will find something of my husband’s for you to wear.’
Freddie smiled his thanks. ‘That is most kind.’
Mrs Galy placed the key on the table. ‘The dining room is at the foot of the stairs to the right. Dinner is served at six o’clock.’
Freddie stood still, listening to the sound of her shoes getting fainter and fainter in the corridor. Then he crossed to the desk. He wrote a brief message for his friends, put the note in an envelope, wrote the address of the boarding house where they were staying and sealed it.
That done, Freddie stripped off to his undergarments. He took the clean towel from the end of the bed and went in search of the bath.
Chapter Seven
As the clock struck six o’clock, Freddie locked his door, put the key in his pocket and went down to dinner. He felt much better. The cuts on his head were not as bad as he had feared and the borrowed clothes were a good fit.
Freddie left the letter for his friends on the counter top, then went to the dining room. He paused in the doorway for a moment and looked around. It was a good-sized room. A heavy oak sideboard filled one wall. Like his bedroom upstairs, there were two tall windows overlooking the square. The glass was covered by heavy velvet curtains that hung on gold rings. There were three sturdy square tables in the dining room, each laid for four. Each was set with white tablecloths, a knife, fork and spoon at each place, and a glass.
Several pairs of eyes turned to look at him. At one table sat two middle-aged women. They looked like one another and Freddie guessed they were sisters. They were talking in low voices and looking at a guidebook. Three men were sitting at the table in the middle of the room. At the table in the far corner, a young couple were gazing at one another. The tips of their fingers were touching.
Freddie gave a general nod of greeting. He did not fancy playing gooseberry. Nor did he want to get into conversation with the sisters, who looked a little severe. He headed for the men’s table.
‘May I join you?’
They introduced themselves, speaking in English, although Freddie found it hard to place their accent.
The meal passed pleasantly in light conversation, advice about the best walks in the region and talk of the bad weather. The maid arrived with jugs of water for each table, local red wine and a basket of bread. The meal was plain, but good - hard-boiled eggs, a plate of cold meats, salt pork, white goat’s cheese and slices of chicken pie. For dessert, there was a bowl of a sugary white pudding rather like English custard.
After dinner was over, the sisters excused themselves. The young couple left shortly after, giggling and holding hands. Freddie and the three men remained for a while in the dining room, smoking. Mr Galy had no whisky, so they all tried a strong local spirit rather like brandy while the maid cleared up around them.
When she began to carry in breakfast things for the morning, Freddie and his companions knew they had outstayed their welcome and got up to leave.
The others decided to go to bed. Freddie, however, was wide awake. He kept reliving his day in his mind. He knew he would not be able to go to sleep.
Freddie found Mr Galy and asked him to leave the bottle. He was getting rather a taste for the local brandy. By means of hand gestures, nods and winks, it was agreed he would pay in the morning.
With his round-bellied glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, Freddie crossed the hall and went towards the small parlour. The tall, long-case clock in the hall struck the hour. A little drunk, Freddie stopped and stared at the hands. The numbers on the clock face seemed to dance before his eyes. It was early still. Only nine o’clock.
Freddie raised his eyebrows. He supposed they kept early hours in the mountains. He would have a nightcap, perhaps smoke another cigarette. Then he would go up to bed.
The door to the parlour was closed. Freddie opened it gently, so as not to disturb anyone. The room was empty but a welcoming fire roared in the grate. There was a smell of resin, the scent of the forest, as the flames crackled and burned the logs.
There was a card table in the corner. He crossed the room, unsteady on his feet, and sat down heavily in a chair. Two decks of cards were stacked on the table. One pack had blue and white backs, the other red.
Freddie played several hands of patience. But even though the cards were good, his mind kept wandering.
Two armchairs were set on either side of the fireplace. They looked inviting. Fred
die gave up his cards and took the chair furthest from the door. He put the bottle and glass down on the table a little too hard. The sound split the silence of the room.
‘Sssh,’ Freddie whispered to nobody.
He picked up a newspaper, but the French was too hard for him so he quickly gave up. He felt content, a little sleepy. He was quite happy to sit and do nothing - to think a little, perhaps, and turn over the events of the day in his mind.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck the quarter.
Freddie glanced at its white face and brass hands. He should go to bed. But he could not summon up the energy to move. The fire was crackling, and he was warm and well fed. He felt his eyelids shutting. Just a few minutes more and he would go up.
Chapter Eight
Freddie jolted awake. His neck was stiff, his shoulders were stiff. His mouth felt woolly with sleep and brandy. He ran his tongue over his teeth and realised he was thirsty.
Slowly, Freddie became aware of the musty smell of the room. He could no longer hear the flames in the grate. There was a smell of ash, too, as if the fire had burned low.
He opened his eyes, wondering what the time was. Still groggy from sleep, he turned his head to look at the clock. For some reason, he could not see the hands. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw something else.
Someone else.
There was a young woman. She was sitting upright and very still, opposite him, looking into the fire. Her skin was as white as china.
Freddie sat up in his chair. The movement caught her attention. She turned her head towards him. Two brown eyes framed by long, black lashes stared straight at him. Freddie felt his heart lurch in his chest. Then, without speaking, she turned away and went back to looking into the flames in the grate.
Awkward, Freddie felt he should apologise for disturbing her.
‘I’m so sorry. I must have fallen asleep. So rude of me.’