WEAVERS
Carole Fenn
Was it merely coincidence the car had broken down on that particular corner? If it hadn’t, we might never have seen the For Sale sign and then perhaps none of this would have happened but David had been thrilled to find the cottage. Fearful though I was, I loved him too much to see him disappointed and hoped my terror would subside in time. It didn’t, of course.
The estate agent had been far too pushy saying it was an executor’s sale and we were lucky to find such a property fully furnished at that price. We were told that the beneficiary, Mr Oliver Chapman, was anxious to return abroad and required a quick sale.
David had always had an interest in antiques and was enthralled to learn that the core of the property dated back to the fifteenth century. I was less than enthusiastic to know that the jungle described as an olde worlde garden adjoined an old cemetery. Nevertheless the sale proceeded in almost indecent haste and within a very short time we had moved in.
Our nearest living neighbour resided about a quarter of a mile away in a large manor house in extensive grounds hidden from prying eyes by a high stone wall with massive iron gates at the entrance to a long drive.
David groaned when he saw the decorating that had to be done in the cottage.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said, trying to sound cheerful but I failed to convince even myself.
“It looks as though nothing has been touched for years. We’ll have to go back to the beginning with this one,” he said.
That sounded a bit drastic to me. “I hope you’re not thinking of knocking down any walls,” I said. “I don’t think the building would stand it.”
Two weeks later we were still painting and decorating. I decided one of the smaller bedrooms would be a guest bedroom. It was to be my particular project. The room overlooked the tangled garden, faced east and received most of the morning sun.
It would be a very feminine room I decided, with chintzy muslin material for the curtains and lamp shades, eau de nil emulsion for the walls and white gloss paint for the woodwork. I had already stripped the walls of three layers of wallpaper and was now working on the hideous blue dye that some previous owner had applied to the walls.
“Confucious, he say ‘Everything in moderation’. He very wise, that one,” David quipped when he came in to review my work.
“Never mind the philosophy, David. Look!” I said, pointing to the floor below the window. “There’s something down there. Do you see it?”
I knelt down to get a better view. I could see the top edge of a circular object of ivory or perhaps bone, decorated with silver inserts. It had been wedged tightly into a gap where the floorboard met the skirting, almost as if it had been hidden there deliberately. I tugged hard and it came free.
“It looks like a teething ring,” I said. I had seen many like it before in the windows of antique shops.
“Let me see,” said David, holding out his hand. “Hmm. Must have been there for years,” he said, blowing the dust off it and holding it up to the light. “Wait a minute. There are some initials but I can’t quite make out what they are... A G perhaps, entw ‒ no. No, definitely a C entwined with an A. Yes, that’s it. C entwined with A.”
“I wonder who it belonged to.”
He shrugged. “It’s quite old by the look of it, but probably worthless. If it was of any value do you think it would have been left there?”
“It looks as if it was put there deliberately.”
“Now, you’re jumping to conclusions. This room may have been used as a nursery many years ago. You said almost as much yourself.” As he left the room he tossed the teething ring carelessly onto the windowsill. Later I heard him whistling as he clattered down the stairs to the kitchen and shortly after he called, “Don’t be long, Ali, the kettle’s boiled.”
I glanced out of the bedroom window and saw the light fading from the garden, leaving fingers of shadow on the rose-clad walls which enclosed it, and I shivered involuntarily. Somewhere at the bottom of the garden, in the area that might once have been an orchard, a blackbird broke into song.
I picked up the teething ring, polished it with a clean duster, put it carefully on the dressing table in our bedroom and joined David in the kitchen. About an hour later I went to bed.
Later that night in our bedroom, I awoke shivering under the thin duvet and moved closer to David for warmth. I could hear a scratching noise above the sound of his heavy breathing and even above his occasional snores. He could sleep through anything while I would either lie awake for hours or wake at the slightest sound.
I had always been afraid of mice and dreaded seeing the creatures running across the bedroom floor but I had to know what was making that strange noise. It came from the furthest side of the room, near the brick fireplace. I forced myself to look although I was terrified at what I might see. Moonlight filtered through the worn threads of the old curtains and cast a pencil beam of light like an accusing finger towards the corner of the room but failed to penetrate the dark shadow that moved there. Whatever was it? The dark mass appeared to grow, then shrink back into itself as if trying to resolve its shape, then suddenly for a split second I saw the form of a young man moving purposefully towards the bed.
I tried to scream but no sound came. He stopped at the end of the bed and, gazing at me, seemed to sigh. I must be dreaming, I thought. This can’t be real. I’m having a nightmare. Almost at once I found my voice. “David!”
“What the d‒ ” he said, sitting bolt upright. “Alison? What on earth is it?”
The vision evaporated at once.
I heard myself gabbling. “It... It started over there by the fireplace, then it was at the bottom of the bed.”
“What? What was?” he asked, ruffling his hair with one hand.
“I heard scratching over there by the fireplace.”
“Probably mice. You will get them here, it’s a very old building. Have a bit of consideration, Ali. It’s very late and I have to get up early in the morning.” He turned his back towards me. “Go back to sleep,” he said angrily pulling the duvet up round his head.
“David,” I said, tapping his shoulder gently at the risk of incurring his wrath again.
“What is it now?” he asked through his teeth.
“There was something else by the fireplace.”
“What?” he said sitting up.
“I don’t know. A shape, moving towards the bed.” It sounded so feeble but that is what I had seen.
“OK, you win,” he said, throwing off the duvet. “You want me to have a look. I’ll go and have a look. Here I am wide awake, looking at what? What am I supposed to be looking at, Alison? There’s nothing here.” He touched the panelled wall beside the fireplace and withdrew his hand immediately.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. It feels cold that’s all but, take it from me, there’s absolutely nothing here. No mice, nothing. Now can I get some sleep? Please....”
He returned to the bed, tugged angrily at the duvet and rolled over on his side while I prayed for oblivion.
Hours later on the verge of sleep, I heard a voice whisper in my ear “Come to me!” It was very close and quite distinct. I reached out for David but he wasn’t there. Instead a note lay on the pillow in the hollow where his head had rested earlier. It read: ‘Didn’t want to wake you. Important meeting ‒ keep all fingers crossed! Back about 7:00pm, depending on traffic. Love, D’.
I slipped into a light dressing-gown and hunted for my slippers. They were under the dressing table, not beside the bed where I thought I had left them. I assumed David must have moved them.
In spite of the Aga, it was freezing later in the kitchen as I filled the kettle. I could not stop shivering.
Suddenly there was a knock at the front door. I glanced at the old wall clock and was surprised to see how late it was ‒ 11:00am already, almost time to prepare lunch. Then I heard bare knuckles against wood and now someone was rattling the letter box.
“All right, all right. I’m coming,” I said, almost tripping over my dressing-gown in my haste to get to the front door.
“Did I get you up, dearie,” said the woman, grinning, when I opened the door. She had the look of a gypsy but there was something else about her that was difficult to define. “Excuse me? No, I...” I began, completely taken by surprise, then, recovering my composure, “What do you want?” I asked her.
“Anything you can spare, dear. Please be kind,” she said in a whining voice. “Old clothes. Have you got any old clothes? Any trinkets. Things you don’t really need. Like necklaces you don’t wear any more, old bracelets, or brooches, perhaps?” Her deeply lined face creased into something like a smile and I saw a sudden, malicious gleam light up her eyes for a second or two. “Any toys, even if they are broken, for the children?”
“No, nothing like that,” I said, remembering the article lodged behind the skirting board. I had a sudden overwhelming desire to keep it, even if it was worthless as David thought.
“Are you sure?” the woman persisted, as though she had read my thoughts. “And no old clothing for me and the little ones?” She tutted, shook her head sadly and moved nearer the door, peering intently over my shoulder as if she could see something in the hall behind me. “You’re new here aren’t you, dear? Just moved in? All on your own?”
“None of your business,” I said. “And if you don’t leave immediately I’ll... I’ll....”
“You’ll do what, dear? Phone the police?” She gave a deep, throaty laugh.
She stretched out a hand towards me and instinctively I moved away. “Such lovely fair hair, just like hers,” she said dreamily.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “Now will you please leave.”
She gave me a wry smile, pulled a shawl across the lower part of her face and mumbled what sounded like “Beware the man with green eyes.”
“What did you say?” I asked but she laughed again and turned abruptly away.
I ran to the front gate and called once more. She must have heard me but she did not turn round. I watched her as she walked swiftly and confidently towards the edge of the wood until her slender form merged with the foliage of the woodland.
Suddenly I felt very alone, shivering in my thin robe in the morning air. I hastily retraced my steps, closed the front door, dashed upstairs to change and returned to the kitchen to renew my battle with the Aga.
I longed to hear David’s voice and even thought of phoning him. Of course that was out of the question. He would be involved in his meeting by now and I had no intention of interrupting that.
After lunch, while washing dishes at the sink, I glanced out of the window and saw a sudden movement in the undergrowth at the far end of the garden. Infuriated by the intrusion I rushed outside.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?!” I shouted, expecting to see several intruders emerge from the bushes at once.
“Sorry, miss,” was the reply. “We were playing in the lane and the ball bounced over the wall.” The voice belonged to a young fair-haired boy who now emerged from the shrubbery. The sun was in my eyes and for a moment I could not make sense of what I saw. At first glance the boy appeared to be wearing a mauve suit with lace cuffs. I concluded it was some kind of fancy dress, blinked rapidly and shielded my eyes from the sun with one hand. Then I saw that the boy’s clothes were in tatters. Did he and his companion belong to the gypsy I had met earlier, I wondered.
“Is this it?” I asked, holding the ball aloft. “I suppose you know you’re trespassing,” I added quickly, trying to keep a straight face.
For a moment the boy looked baffled.
“Yes,” I went on “this is private property. You may have your ball this time but don’t ever let me see you in this garden again. Is that understood? Now go and play somewhere else. And that applies to your friends as well. Do you hear?” I said, throwing the ball to him.
“Yes, miss,” he replied. “Thank you, miss. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“Good. I hope not.”
I tried desperately hard not to laugh as he almost lost his shirt in a mad scramble to leap over the wall at the end of the garden and get away from me as fast as he could. Some time later at the same spot I found a tiny piece of lace impaled on a thorn.
“Well, you certainly gave him a fright.” The voice was stern. “I hope you don’t treat all your visitors so harshly.” A man’s face appeared above the wall to my right. “I didn’t know anyone lived here, but I’m forgetting my manners ‒ Ian Fraser,” he said, extending a brown arm over the wall.
“Alison Foster,” I replied as we shook hands.
Then he continued, “The church employs me as a part-time groundsman for the churchyard. I started here a week ago, so I am still on probation if you like, although I am a qualified gardener.” He added, “Do you live here alone?”
“That’s the second time I’ve been asked that today,” I said.
“Well, I apologise.”
“It’s really none of your business, Mr Fraser, but my husband and I moved in about two weeks ago.”
His handsome weathered face creased into a smile.
“Forgive me but I could not help noticing the state of your garden,” he said. “I’m here most afternoons but I could manage a few hours in the mornings. If you or your husband need any help to get it straight, you know where to find me. Nice to meet you, Mrs Foster.”
Before I could reply he had gone.
I returned to the cottage and went upstairs to change my clothes for the second time. It was then I noticed that the teething ring was no longer on the dressing table where I knew I had left it the night before. I looked under the dressing table but it was not there either. Where could it be?
My search was cut short by the sound of someone knocking the front door. Then I heard a woman’s voice. “Ooh, ooh,” she called through the letterbox. I thought the gypsy might have returned and, not wishing to see her again, I waited, hoping she would go away, but this voice was different, more shrill. “Ooh, ooh,” she called again. Whoever the visitor was, she was certainly persistent. I rushed downstairs, taking care not to slip on the bare treads of the steep, narrow staircase and made a mental note to ask David to fit a handrail.
“Coming!” I called.
When I opened the front door I saw a plump woman with red hair standing on the doorstep.
“Hullo,” she said. “I’m Ruth Martin. I’m a member of the League of Friends of the Meads Hospital. Would you care to buy some raffle tickets? It’s for a very good cause. We’re trying to raise funds to provide new equipment and improved facilities in the playroom for sick children. Oh dear!” she said swaying and clutching the doorpost. “I feel.... Oh! I wonder, could I possibly sit down for a moment? So sorry to be a nuisance.”
She was very pale and unsteady on her feet and my instincts convinced me she was genuine.
“You’re not a nuisance,” I replied. “Come into the kitchen. I was just about to put the kettle on anyway,” I said.
I closed the front door, led her to the kitchen and guided her to one of the old armchairs. She sank into it gratefully. A cup of tea and several biscuits later, she seemed to revive.
“Forgive me, dear,” she said, adjusting her spectacles. There was a slight pause as she read my name on the raffle ticket stubs. “Don’t think I’m being nosy,” she said, “but do you live here alone, Mrs Foster?”
Why that question again? I did my best to remain calm.
“Alison, please. No, I live here with my husband, David,” I replied.
“Good.”
I must have shown my surprise at her response because she began to get flustered.
“What I mean is, well, I’ve always admired this cottage, it’s enchanting, magical, untouched by time. It’s good to know that someone wants to live here at last, someone who will love it and bring it back to life.”
“At last?”
“Yes, it was empty for quite a while, you know, after Mr Leonard Hargreaves died. My sister Sara was his housekeeper. She arrived one morning to find him slumped over his desk, the table lamp still on. There were papers all over the desk, some even scattered on the floor. The poor man had apparently had a seizure. Strange business.” Ruth’s eyes glazed over as if she was remembering something. She rubbed a hand across her forehead.
“Mr Chapman told us his uncle was something of a historian,” I said.
“Well, I suppose you could call him that.”
“You don’t agree?”
Ruth took a deep breath. “Yes, he was a historian. He was also interested in genealogy but, well, you might as well hear it from me I suppose. He was a spirit medium, my dear. He held séances here from time to time in the back room but then a group of villagers took exception to his so-called practices and tried to put a stop to them. Old Hargreaves always felt there was something odd about this cottage and wanted to find out about previous occupants. It seems he had a particular interest in the eighteenth century. Leave the dead in peace I say. There are those who believe he dabbled in the Black Arts, others said he was even trying to raise the dead. You know how gossip gets out of hand. People began to avoid him wherever he went. He became a virtual recluse. If it hadn’t been for Sara... well.”
“It couldn’t have been easy for her.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Were any of the séances successful?”
“Yes. Some say, and I agree with them, he should have let the dead rest, that because of his persistent meddling he awakened something that should have remained undisturbed.”
“What?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“You’re beginning to frighten me, Ruth, but yes.”
“In the early 1700s this cottage was on land belonging to the Langton estate and occupied by Walter Beauclaire, an estate employee, and his two daughters Cecily and Igrainne. The Beauclaires were an old Huguenot family; their ancestors were silk weavers. It amused Hargreaves to give the cottage that name even though there was no real evidence that Walter and his daughters were ever silk weavers. Walter did not have the time and Igrainne and her sister Cecily supported themselves by straw plaiting and spinning wool. I believe there is still a spinning wheel here somewhere, probably in the attic. In due course Igrainne found employment as a dairy maid at the manor house. The original manor house had been built by a Hugo de Cheney in 1329 and his descendants have lived there ever since. You may have seen the house in passing.” Ruth paused as if anticipating a reply.
“I know where it is, of course. When we came to view this place, Mr Chapman mentioned a grand house beyond iron gates but the only part that is visible from the road is the folly with its crenellated tower. The grounds and the house are obscured by a high wall, and David and I have been too busy refurbishing the cottage to go exploring very far.”
Ruth nodded and went on. “In about 1780, when Igrainne was employed there, the 4th Earl of Chelmsmore was in residence. James, his eldest son, fell in love with her. They wanted to marry but the Earl was against the match because he thought a dairy maid wasn’t good enough for his son. Igrainne was dismissed at once of course. Money should marry money as they say and the Earl had hoped his son would be attracted to an heiress he had in mind but James refused to marry a woman he did not love just because she was rich.”
Ruth paused to sip her tea.
“When the Earl heard there was a child he was enraged and told Walter he must send his daughter away at once or lose his employment on the estate. Walter refused. News of James’s association with Igrainne became local gossip and James, taunted by one of his gambling associates, fought a duel to defend her honour. His opponent killed him outright. When Igrainne heard the news she was heartbroken. Unable to bear her grief any longer she went to a convent of her own accord, where shortly afterwards she died. No one knows what became of the child. The Earl, worn down with grief for his son and all the gossip, died unexpectedly in his sleep. His title passed to his younger son, Giles Alnor in accordance with his wishes.
“What happened to Walter?” I asked.
“Giles took pity on Walter and told him he could remain in the cottage and his employment would be reinstated. However, Walter was a proud man and had already found occasional work as a gardener outside the estate boundaries. The conflict with the old Earl had been emotionally draining for him and he died an embittered old man, worn out at the age of 53.”
“And Cecily, what happened to her?”
“At about the same time Cecily married a local watchmaker by the name of Thomas Pryce. I believe they had several sons, one died at Trafalgar, another at Talavera.”
“And Hargreaves found all that information in genealogical records?”
“Most of it.”
“You mean...?”
“I’ve told you all I know,” Ruth said, getting flustered again. “I have already said far too much. The cottage and its occupants should be allowed to keep their secrets. It’s dangerous to delve too much into the past. What’s done, is done.”
“No! It’s fascinating.”
Ruth passed a hand over her forehead for a second time.
“Are you feeling better?” I asked. “Another cup of tea, perhaps?”
“Much better, dear, and no I won’t have another, thank you.” She paused for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual since you’ve been here?”
I had been so intrigued by what Ruth had told me I had almost forgotten the events of the past few hours but now everything came flooding back.
“My husband thinks I imagined it all...” I began, then before I could stop myself, the words came tumbling out.
“I was redecorating one of the bedrooms when I found what looked like a teething ring wedged between the skirting and a floorboard, and last night I saw a young man in our bedroom. He spoke to me, then he disappeared into thin air.” I realised with some embarrassment that I had been babbling and put a hand over my mouth.
Ruth frowned. “Well, my dear, it sounds to me as if you may be in great danger. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. What this place needs is an exorcism. My sister Sara knows all the right people. Would you like me to have a word with her?”
“I’ll discuss it with David first, I think.”
“Well,” she sighed. “I can do no more. This is where you can reach me if you change your mind, but don’t leave it too long. In my experience things often get out of hand if they are left. Nothing ever resolves itself.”
She smiled knowingly and handed me a piece of scrap paper with her address and phone number on it. “I’d best be going,” she said, heaving herself to her feet. “Thank you for your contribution to our fund, and for the refreshments.”
“You’re very welcome,” I said as I accompanied her to the door, “and thank you for your advice.”
“I meant what I said,” she replied.
I had just closed the front door when the phone rang. It was David. “Sorry, love,” he began “I shall have to stay in town overnight. You don’t mind, do you?” There was a sudden crackle of static on the line. “It’s damned inconvenient. We’ve been at it all day but there’s still one item to be hammered out. I was really hoping....” His voice faded away.
“David? I....”
“Yes?” He sounded irritated.
“Apart from that, is the meeting progressing well?”
“You know I can’t talk now, Alison. Incidentally teething ‒ incredible ‒ waste....”
His voice was drowned by another explosion of static.
“I can’t hear you, David. Could you repeat that?”
“...soon. Bye.”
I was still holding the phone when the static stopped abruptly. Then I heard a click and realised David had replaced the receiver.
It was as though there was something or someone in the cottage watching me, waiting for something to happen.
“David, how could you do this to me?” I said to myself. Without realising it I found I had automatically put the biscuits away and washed the used cups and saucers but my hands were shaking badly.
Through the kitchen window I could see it was almost dark outside. A wind had suddenly sprung up and was whistling through the overhanging branches of trees on the churchyard side of the garden. I shivered, drew the kitchen curtains and checked that the back door was locked. There was still a draught coming from somewhere. Perhaps I had left a window open upstairs? I switched all the lights on and forced myself to go and have a look. A feeling of utter dread clung to me. To keep myself from screaming, I did what I had not done for years ‒ I began to sing. I checked the upstairs windows and was relieved to see they were all firmly shut.
As I left the main bedroom and paused on the square landing, I was surprised to see that the door to the stairway leading to the attic was ajar. I wondered why I had not noticed it was open on my way upstairs. It was a flimsy door normally held shut by a latch. I supposed the draught had worked the latch loose. I clipped it shut and went downstairs carefully, keeping close to one wall to support myself because there was nothing to hold on to if I lost my footing. At least, I thought, I was not pregnant as Igrainne had been. How dangerous it must have been for her!
A sudden draught rattled the letterbox as I checked that the heavy oak front door was locked. I tried to draw the top and bottom bolts but they were too stiff to move. I went into the kitchen to deal with the whistling kettle and realised that I was still shaking. What I needed now more than anything was a good stiff drink. I knew David kept a small supply in the back room he had decided to use as his study, the back room where, according to Ruth, Leonard Hargreaves had held his séances.
In a cupboard behind the desk I found a bottle of Cognac. Still shivering, I poured a small measure into a goblet, held the bowl in the palm of my hand for a moment, then drank, revelling in the warmth the liquid gave me.
Something tapped at the window. By this time the brandy was beginning to work. I felt more courageous now but also very drowsy. I went over to the small lattice window that overlooked the back garden. The wind had gained in strength and with it came rain. Tendrils of ivy lashed against the window; the cottage was smothered with it. I thought hazily that Ian Fraser would probably need an assistant to help him to remove it. There was so much I wanted to discuss with David. Why wasn’t he here with me?
As I drew the worn curtains, I noticed there was a small piece of glass missing from a corner of one of the leaded panes. The wind continued to moan around the cottage and hissed through the gap in the window. I longed to sleep but dreaded going upstairs again. Instead I gathered an armful of cushions from the living room, stacked them on the leather couch covered with an old blanket in one corner of the study and, pulling the blanket up around my ears, settled down to sleep.
Someone called her name. I heard it clearly, though it was no more than a sigh. “Igrainne! Igrainne!” She was just a girl, slim and exquisitely pretty in a blue silk dress. The tall youth caught up with her at the well and together they laughed in the sunlight as he spun her round to face him. Then with great care he gently removed the ribbons from her fair hair so that it tumbled in profusion over her shoulders and, gathering her towards him, pressed his mouth firmly onto her full red lips. He wore a short coat of yellow cloth over a cream embroidered waistcoat. His breeches were tied at the knee and buckles adorned his shoes. He took a dagger with a jewelled hilt from his belt, and from a nearby briar cut a white rose. He presented it to the girl, then sank onto his knees before her.
I awoke with an appalling headache and saw the curtains had been drawn back. Sunshine flooded the small room and something glistened on David’s desk. It was a glass vase containing a single white rose and the room was filled with its scent.
A figure appeared to be swaying near the door.
“How would you like your eggs, madam? Poached, scrambled, boiled or fried?”
“David!”
“I came in earlier but you were well away. I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Did you have a party last night?” he asked, moving nearer to the desk to examine the bottle of brandy I had forgotten to put away.
“I took a sip of brandy to help me sleep,” I said, stretching lazily. “David, it’s so good to see you. How was your day?” I stood up and was about to kiss him but he moved away.
“It went very well,” he replied but his voice was flat. “Everything’s sorted and I have two days’ leave.”
“Great,” I said as I followed him into the kitchen.
“So what’ll it be?” he asked.
“Oh, just toast probably. How about you?”
“I had something earlier, but you need something, you look awful.”
I was munching a piece of toast when I remembered.
“By the way, thank you for the rose,” I said.
“What rose?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“The rose on your desk. It was a kind thought, thank you,” I said.
“Not me, I’m afraid. One of your admirers perhaps? Ali, I think you should rest, you look exhausted. Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down for a while?”
As I left the kitchen and crossed the hall, I saw the study door was still open, the room still flooded with sunshine. There was nothing on David’s desk now, nothing except a few papers. The rose had gone.
“David, I need to talk to you.”
“Just get your head down,” he replied. “We can talk later. Go on,” he said, shooing me upstairs.
“This is ridiculous. I’ve only just got up,” I protested as I clambered wearily up the narrow staircase to our bedroom.
He followed me into the room, opened one of the slip windows and drew the curtains. I closed my eyes and surrendered to sleep.
It was late afternoon when I woke to see David standing next to the bed with a cup of tea.
“I’ve been talking to Ian Fraser for about half an hour,” he said. “He’s going to start on the garden tomorrow morning. Seems a nice chap, friendly. He said he’d spoken to you yesterday.” He paused, put the cup and saucer on the bedside table and frowned. “By the way, someone put this through the letterbox. It’s addressed to you, Alison. Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”
I tore open the envelope with my name hastily scrawled on it, and read: ‘Father Tony Colefax would be pleased to assist you and suggests you phone him at the number below to arrange a time for him to call. Alternatively if you wish to discuss the matter in private, he will be available at The Vicarage on Thursday between 7:00 and 9:00pm. Good luck!’
There was a telephone number and the message was signed R M.
“Another admirer?” David asked curtly.
“You didn’t give me a chance to explain this morning,” I said and handed him the note. “R M is Ruth Martin,” I began and told him everything that had happened while he had been away.
“So where does all this leave us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, here we are in what you say is a haunted cottage, waiting to be spirited away ‒ oh, excuse the pun. I thought we were going to be happy here for the rest of our lives but you have to concoct this ridiculous story about ghosts just because you don’t like it here.”
“That’s not true.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Alison, but that’s how it seems to me. You listen to all this stupid gossip. Who is this woman anyway? Do I know her? Does she even exist or is she another figment of your imagination?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Well, it’s all very suspicious, isn’t it? Now let me see. A gypsy called with a strange message. You discovered a boy in the back garden who appeared to be wearing a velvet suit with lace cuffs, and met Ian Fraser who offered to clear the back garden. Are you sure you didn’t approach him?”
“No! What are you s...”
“No, no, don’t interrupt, I haven’t finished yet. Later, this... this busybody calls with some preposterous story about the previous occupant and his interest in the occult ‒ oh, and, of course, he dies ‒ in my study. Nice! Then to cap it all you dream that some apparition leaves a rose on my desk. Incidentally I didn’t see it. So, what on earth am I supposed to think, Alison? Just put yourself in my position for a minute.”
“You don’t believe a word I’ve said, do you?”
He laughed. “Oh,” he slapped his forehead “I forgot the incident when you kept me awake half the night looking for the apparition of a young man you saw in our bedroom when I desperately needed a good night’s sleep because the next day I had to attend one of the most important meetings of my career. But, no, you had to have your way.”
“David, please.”
“What?”
I could see he was really angry now and realised there was no point in bottling everything up, so I went on. “That ‘phone call yesterday. I find it difficult to believe you had to stay overnight just to finish your meeting.”
“Well, that just shows how much you know. What has your imagination concocted this time? Go on, Alison, fire away. Don’t let me stop you.”
“I’m sick of your accusations, David. How dare you suggest I’m imagining these things. How would you know what happens here when you’re away.”
“That’s precisely my point, Alison.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re free to get up to anything when I’m not here.”
“Why don’t you just say it. For that matter, how do I know you’re not having an affair. That meeting was just an excuse. You must think I’m daft.”
“That’s what all this is about, is it? This nonsense about ghosts, strange sightings and all the other things, when really what it boils down to is your inadequacy. You...”
“Stop!” I said. “Just listen to us, we’re like an old married couple.”
“I thought you trusted me,” David said quietly.
“I do, David, but you haven’t explained anything.”
“I shouldn’t have to,” he said and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
I wrenched it open and found him at his desk in the study, resting his head on his outstretched arms.
“This isn’t how it should be, David,” I said. “We don’t need this nonsense. I love you, I trust you. I promise I have not, nor ever will be, unfaithful to you.”
“But you think I’ve been unfaithful to you,” he said.
“No, in my heart I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”
“Then why say it?”
“I was angry and felt you were accusing me of something I hadn’t done.”
“Pah!” he said.
“David, I think we should concentrate on getting this place sorted out and then maybe everything will settle down. Perhaps we should start with the garden and get that cleared first. Do you agree?”
“I’ve already told you,” he said, struggling to control his anger. “This chap ‒ what’s his name ‒ Fraser said he’ll be round about 10:00 tomorrow morning. I’ve asked him to start on the ivy. The cottage is smothered in it. He said he’ll bring his son along to help him.”
“Good,” I said.
“We discussed terms. He seems very reasonable but expects to be paid in cash for obvious reasons. Can’t say I blame him.”
Ian Fraser was as good as his word and arrived at precisely 10:00 the following morning as arranged.
“This is my son, Alan,” he said and I could see a remarkable resemblance between the tall slim youth and his father.
As arranged, the pair began by attacking the ivy which clung so tenaciously to every inch of the cottage walls. They worked solidly for several hours. The sound of their spades hitting compacted earth was regular, bordering on monotonous, as they struggled to cut through the mass of tangled roots buried deep in the ground.
David was busy in his study, while, in the kitchen, I was planning menus for the following week when I heard a shout and opened the back door. Ian was holding a small gold ring in his hand. “Found in a mass of roots just below the window,” he said in disbelief.
David opened the study window and looked down. “Don’t tell me you’ve struck gold,” he said. “My dream come true! May I see?” Ian dropped the ring into David’s outstretched hand.
“I don’t know much about these things,” said Ian, “but I would say it might be a poesy ring, judging by the inscription inside ‒ ‘Forever thine, J A’.”
“Is that the same as a betrothal ring?” I asked.
“I believe so, yes,” said Ian.
“And the initials?
“It is possible they stand for James Alnor. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Indeed it does,” I said. “But that’s incredible.”
“Yes, it is,” said Ian. “Quite remarkable, really.” He smiled and as he did so I saw a network of fine lines crease into an intricate pattern around hazel eyes freckled with flecks of green.
“I’ve made some coffee, if you’re ready to take a break,” I said.
The pair followed me into the kitchen and, after washing their hands at the sink, seated themselves at the circular table. “Tuck in,” I said, indicating a large plate of newly baked scones, as I poured the coffee.
“This is very good of you, Mrs Foster,” said Ian.
Alan kept quiet and I could see he was exhausted.
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m very grateful to both of you for all your hard work. I am intrigued by what you found and the Alnor family’s association with this cottage. Can you tell me anything else about them?”
“My grandfather used to tell me stories about the manor when I was a young boy,” Ian said. “You see, his mother Alice, my great grandmother, was lady’s maid to Louisa, the wife of Giles Alnor, James’s brother. The story was that James’s father disinherited his son because of his association with Walter Beauclaire’s daughter Igrainne who lived here in about 1780. The title passed to James’s younger brother. Its academic because James died in a duel. My great grandfather, Edmund Buchan, was at that time gamekeeper on the estate. His job involved rearing pheasants and setting traps for poachers. In that capacity he was bound to report any poacher he found stealing birds, even rabbits.
“Great grandfather was responsible for maintaining the pheasant population and providing game for the earl’s table. The meat and poultry was hung on hooks in a circular outhouse specially designed for the purpose, near the kitchen. Basically it was left there to air until the maggots had done their work. Their attentions are said to improve the flavour of the meat. Not a very pleasant thought, Mrs Foster, but that’s how it was in those days, and more recently in some places.”
I shuddered uncontrollably. Alan saw me and laughed but Ian was quite serious.
“Go on,” I said.
“One morning great grandfather went out to check his snares as usual and found this young poacher with his foot caught in one of his traps. He must have been there all night. He was a handsome young fellow apparently and in great pain. The young man told him he had a wife and several children to support. When great grandfather realised the state of the young man’s injuries it was apparent to him that the youngster would lose his foot. Great grandfather considered that was punishment enough and decided not to report him. He took a hell of a risk by making that decision because if the earl had found out he could so easily have been dismissed without a reference. Which meant he and his family would have been reduced to abject poverty in much the same way as the gypsy who now lay at his feet. An irony that was not lost on great grandfather. In those days gypsies were a tremendous nuisance on the estate but they have a strong survival instinct. Some of their ancestors still live round about.”
“One of them called here only the other day,” I said.
Ian smiled and went on. “One day great grandfather was crossing the yard on his way to the kitchen with a bag of rabbits for the pot slung over one shoulder, when he saw Alice attending her mistress and fell in love with the girl. Eventually news of James’s association with Walter Beauclaire’s daughter Igrainne became common gossip. There was a child, so it is said.”
“Yes, Ruth Martin told me all about that but no one seems to know what happened to it after Igrainne went to a convent.”
“Igrainne was not allowed to take the infant to the convent and so her sister Cecily was left holding the baby so to speak. Cecily’s new husband, Thomas Pryce, a watchmaker, accepted the boy as his own son and renamed him Edward, though of course his real name was Charles Alnor. So instead of young Charles accepting his fate as a possible heir to a title, the Langton estate and the Chelmsmore fortune, the poor little mite became the son of a watchmaker. You could say his destiny was redesigned overnight.”
“How do you know so much about him?” I asked.
“It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with all the details. The upshot is that Thomas Pryce’s sister Rosaline married. My 3 x great grandfather, Edmund Buchan, was her grandson. I’ve been doing a little research of my own based on what I heard as a child. It’s a romantic story, much of which I discounted as I grew older, but, well, from what you’ve told me, what I discovered for myself over the years and now ‒ he turned the ring over in his hand ‒ there appears to be some truth in all this. As for Edward Pryce, it seems he went on to distinguish himself on the battlefield at Talavera. His medals are testament to his bravery. His body rests in a military cemetery somewhere in Northern Spain. The earl who refused to accept the child as his grandson would have been proud, but there you are.”
Within a week Ian and his son Alan had cleared the garden and dug it over. David and I were delighted with the result. The wilderness had been tamed to reveal several apple trees and boundary walls covered with climbing roses. There was no sign of the ivy now. The walls of the cottage were clear at last and ready to be redecorated. To my amazement they had even uncovered an old well-head just like the one in my vision that had lain hidden by a tangled mass of briars.
“Let the ground rest for a while before you replant,” Ian said. “Then, when you are ready, if you need any help with a plant list, I’d be happy to advise you.”
A week later the three of us were in the study waiting anxiously for Father Colefax to begin the exorcism service. The family Bible, with its heavily embossed thick leather cover, lay on a chair in the centre of the room. Next to the Bible lay the teething ring, which had mysteriously reappeared on the windowsill in the old nursery one day, and the betrothal ring Ian had found in the garden.
I could feel my heart hammering in my chest as Father Colefax moved slowly around the study reverently anointing the edges and corners of the room with holy water as he went. His pale face showed no emotion as he adjusted his soutane and solemnly instructed us to join hands with him and each other to form a circle with the chair in our midst.
“Whatever happens, whatever you think you see, it is imperative that you do not break the circle,” he said.
Then he asked us all to concentrate as he began to speak slowly and deliberately in Latin. Some of the words were familiar, others were not. My thoughts began to wander and I glanced out of the window. The sky had darkened ominously and the lights in the room and further down the hall began to flicker as if a storm was imminent. Father Colefax tightened his grip on my hand until I thought my bones would break. David stood on my right. I looked across at Ian but he had bowed his head and appeared to be concentrating on the Bible. I noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead just as the lights flickered one last time before they went out. I sensed a sudden draught in the room as if someone had opened the front door but Father Colefax continued to pray as if nothing had happened.
At the beginning I assumed the rushing noise I heard was in my head. It was a noise I associated with fear. Accompanying it was a low moan but as the chill air became more intense, the moan increased in volume until the pitch changed to a shrill piercing note, the highest I have ever heard. I had an overwhelming desire to put my hands over my ears to block it out but at the last moment remembered what the priest had told us. My ears hurt terribly; the pressure in my head was immense. The rushing wind was even more intense now. It seemed to reach into every corner of the cottage.
I felt strangely hot and faint. The unpleasant sensation lasted for what seemed a very long time and I knew that any moment I might lose consciousness.
Suddenly there was a terrific gust of wind as the force entered the study. The cover of the Bible flew open. Its thin pages were whipped rapidly back and forth and almost ripped from their binding as if by an unseen hand.
The priest was shouting but his voice was barely audible above the ferocious roar of the wind.
He was beginning to show signs of exhaustion but determinedly continued to pray. Then, as unexpectedly as it had begun, the wind suddenly stopped and sighed, or so it seemed, and almost immediately afterwards I felt what can only be described as an all pervading sensation of absolute peace as though everything in the world had changed and was now as it should be.
The warm morning light which flooded the study after the exorcism service remained long after Father Colefax had gone. I checked the heavy Bible before replacing it on the bookshelf and was surprised to see that its fragile pages were intact.
Ian was smiling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. I picked up the teething ring and the betrothal ring.
“These belong to you, Ian,” I said. “They are part of your family. It is only right you should have them.”
The old nursery, now completely redecorated, had become my sewing room because the light was good there. I was there one morning and had just finished repairing a tear in one of David’s shirts when I caught sight of the fragment of lace I had discovered in the garden. It lay in the corner of my workbox and for a few seconds as I stared at it, it appeared to glimmer.
“Thank you, my love,” David said as he eased himself into the shirt. In an unexpected display of affection, he put his arms around me and buried his face in my hair.
The atmosphere in the room was electric. As his lips brushed my ear I heard the whispered words “I am thine, forever.” My heart lurched and I jumped.
“What ‒ what did you say, David?”
“The repair ‒ it’s fine, as ever.” He looked puzzled. “Good grief, Ali, I didn’t expect you to jump out of your skin. You are an excellent needlewoman. I can’t even see where the tear was.” He tutted and turned on his heel.
My pulse continued to race as he left the room. I thought then about what Ian had said in the kitchen a few days before. He believed that a building absorbs all the emotions of its occupants, in the same way that a sponge absorbs water, so that in effect whatever happens to them during their occupation becomes imprinted in the fabric of a building and affects the whole ambience of the place, for ever.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of children laughing as they played in the lane beyond the garden wall. I hoped Igrainne and her beloved were at peace now but I wondered about all the other occupants who had once lived here. What secrets would the cottage reveal about them in the years to come?
End
