by Kate Ryder
‘Strippers,’ announced a rasping, heavy smoker’s voice.
I made a small sound in the back of my throat. ‘Hi, is that Jamie?’
‘Aye. How can I help?’
I explained that Nick suggested I phone him and asked if he had any bread oven doors amongst his stock.
‘Got a few. Just done a reclamation over Bockhampton way. Different sizes too.’
‘That sounds promising. Where exactly is your yard?’
He gave me directions and I arranged to visit the following day.
It was raining again and the wind had picked up. With nothing better to do I whiled away a couple of hours in the bath and, later, lounging around in my dressing gown, I made supper and watched television with Storm on my lap. There was little of interest and at around nine, having flicked through the channels several times, I decided to go to bed and read. Storm immediately jumped off my lap and rushed upstairs. And so we settled in my cosy bedroom, the cat curled up contentedly on the bed, the bedside lamp casting a warm glow across the room and the towel at the window billowing as ferocious gusts of wind found their way through the gap in the casement.
It was shortly after nine-thirty when Storm suddenly looked up and stared intently at the bedroom door with his ears pricked and alert; fur bristling. I laid the book face down, splayed open on the bed, and soothingly stroked him, but he shook off my caress. As he listened keenly, a low growl resonated from deep within his throat. The bedside light flickered and suddenly dimmed and I noticed the digital clock’s luminous green numbers displaying 21:33. Despite the rain hammering against the windowpanes, I was aware of an impenetrable stillness lingering thickly in the air. Curiously, even though the wind still gusted furiously outside, the towel now hung motionless on its pole.
And then I heard them – footsteps on the stairs.
I froze. With heightened senses, I sat very still, every fibre in my body straining; my hearing acute. Who – or what – was coming up the stairs?
A sudden chill in the air made the hairs on the back of my neck prick and I shivered. As I broke into a cold, clammy sweat, my heart raced and I was aware of the blood coursing through my veins. Terrified, I held my breath and counted each footstep – six, seven, eight, nine… Who was out there and how had they got into the cottage? The tension in the room was palpable. As if in slow motion, I turned towards the door and braced myself, waiting for it to open.
But it remained firmly closed. Storm still stared at the door, growling quietly. Slipping out of bed, I stood at the door undecided what to do next, and held my breath, as I strained to hear any noise from the other side. Not a sound. I cast around for something that could serve as a weapon but nothing presented itself. Slowly and quietly I lifted the latch and inched open the door but I couldn’t see anyone through the crack. I eased it open a fraction more. There was no one there. Walking out onto the landing, I switched on the light and opened the door to the guest bedroom. It, too, was empty. I made my way downstairs and searched every room. Nothing…
I stood in the centre of the sitting room and looked over in the direction of the bread oven.
‘Who are you?’ I whispered. ‘What do you want with me?’
The silence was deafening. Whoever – or whatever – was no longer here.
I stood a while longer until the cold air nipping at my heels sent me rushing upstairs again. I had been downstairs all of fifteen minutes, but as I climbed back into bed I noticed the luminous numbers of the clock displaying 21:35.
‘That can’t be!’
Perhaps the bedside light had dimmed due to an interruption in the electricity supply. Maybe this had also stopped the clock. But then, surely, the digital reading would have reset to zero?
Suddenly the numbers changed to 21:36.
Storm was still on the bed, relaxed once more; his coat lying smooth and sleek against his body. I put out my hand and stroked him. He stretched, stood up, circled once and immediately settled, curling up with one paw over his face. Outside, it was blowing a gale and I noticed that the towel at the window overlooking the courtyard had resumed its billowing. I was still spooked and peered into the dark shadows in the corners of the room. Pulling the duvet up to my neck, I tried to concentrate on reading again.
I must have fallen asleep, as I awoke around three to find the lamp still on and the book open on my pillow. Placing it on the bedside table, I switched off the light and turned onto my side, nudging Storm with my feet to give me more room. He grunted his disapproval. A disturbed and dream-filled sleep soon came to me – something to do with Lucy, Dan and me – and when the alarm went off at seven, I woke exhausted and unable to recall any detail. It couldn’t have been that important.
After breakfast I drove to Winterborne Monkton under a grey, overcast sky that threatened rain. The journey took me through stunning, hilly countryside between Bridport and Dorchester, past the old fort at Chilcombe Hill. At Winterbourne Abbas I turned off towards Winterborne Monkton, following Jamie’s directions. Taking a road that skirted the hill with Maiden Castle at its summit – the largest fortified Iron Age hill fort in Britain dating back more than two thousand years – I turned right down a farm lane. After approximately five hundred yards, I rounded a corner and emerged into a yard surrounded by a magnificent range of stone barns nestling in a fold of the Dorset hills.
I pulled up alongside the only other vehicle in the car park – a battered yellow van that had definitely seen better days – and gazed at a sign hanging above an open door. ‘STRIPPERS Salvage & Reclamation’. The yard was littered with architectural objects and as I picked my way through towards the entrance, an Alsatian suddenly appeared in the doorway. Silently, it watched my approach. I hesitated.
‘Satan, come here,’ growled a deep voice from within.
Satan… Great!
As the dog turned and retreated, I continued on once more and gingerly peered through the open door. The barn was enormous, open to the rafters two floors above, and crammed full of a vast array of salvage. Through the gloom I saw a man sitting at a desk against the far wall with the dog at his feet.
‘Hi. Jamie?’ I called out.
The man looked up. ‘That’s me.’
Approximately mid-sixties, he wore his long silver hair tied back in a ponytail. I smiled to myself — he wouldn’t look misplaced hanging out with the Rolling Stones. Dressed in a pair of faded denim jeans, a black fleece jacket, woollen fingerless gloves and a bohemian-style scarf casually slung around his neck, he was well wrapped up against the cold of the barn. As I walked towards him I noticed the twinkle in the beady blue eyes that surveyed me from his lived-in, weather-beaten face. What was it about these Dorset guys? It appeared they all shared a secret joke. I explained that I’d phoned yesterday and was searching for a bread oven door. He motioned me to follow him through a doorway into another vast barn, again stacked high with reclaimed material.
‘Don’t worry about Satan,’ he said, glancing at me over his shoulder. ‘He’s a pussy cat.’
I stared at the dog. It stared back.
‘I only called him that to deter any overly interested visitors. It seems to work.’
And Satan did prove to be a real softy. Staying close, he accompanied us through the barns, his wet nose occasionally nudging me for attention.
I followed the man past neat rows of architectural salvage – paving stones, cast-iron baths, ancient wooden doors, old fireplaces – and then he stopped at a stack of slates and scratched his head.
‘They’re around here somewhere.’
As I followed him down a narrow pathway between the slates, a collection of stone gargoyles propped on low beams followed us with their cold, unseeing eyes. On reaching the rear alleyway, the man stopped and pointed to a row of old oven doors propped neatly against the rear wall.
‘There’s fancy ones and plain ones, little ones and large,’ Jamie said in his gravelly voice. ‘What size are you after?’
I explained it was an approximat
e twelve-inch opening and he pointed to a few that might fit. Leaving me to examine them on my own, he called to Satan and, unhurriedly, they walked back to the main barn.
One door immediately caught my eye. Adorned with a shield displaying three horseshoes and three nails, it was highly suitable for The Olde Smithy. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. It was heavy and in good condition; the black-coloured lead hardly marked. I examined the other doors but there were none as befitting. I’d found what I was looking for. I spent a further half hour checking out the remaining salvage in the barn and knew this was not a one-off visit. Satan and I were to become well acquainted.
When I walked back into the main barn, Jamie was once again sitting at his desk with the dog at his feet. He was rolling a cigarette but paused long enough to clear a space on the desk so I could write out a cheque.
‘So you know Nick Corbin then?’ He studied me curiously as he ran his tongue down a length of rolling paper.
I felt a warm glow. Suggesting that I knew Nick made me feel as if I belonged to his inner circle.
‘Yes. He recommended you.’
‘Good bloke that Nick. Salt of the earth.’
I was ridiculously happy that this man should think so and enthusiastically agreed, even though I didn’t have a clue whether Nick was a ‘good bloke’ or not.
The sound of a car pulling up and then voices, as doors opened and slammed shut, prompted Satan to get up from where he lay. Walking to the open door, the dog stood and looked out into the yard; obviously a favourite pastime. I thanked Jamie for the oven door and said I would be back. He nodded. As I walked towards the entrance he called to Satan to move away from the door.
*
The weekend dragged, despite working at the pub on both evenings plus the Sunday lunchtime shift. I was jittery and on edge and knew it was because I couldn’t wait for Monday evening to arrive. Brian asked if everything was all right as I seemed distracted and I attempted to pull myself together and concentrate on the job in hand, but it was hard going. Janet’s cousin, Bill, came in with his girlfriend on the Sunday and was embarrassed to see me behind the bar. I put him at ease, assuring him that the car was running well and I was happy with my purchase. Not once did he refer to our conversation about the cottage, but I could tell it was on the tip of his tongue. At one point he took Janet aside and whispered something in her ear, and although she looked across at me with a quizzical expression, nothing was said.
That evening, still feeling unsettled and wishing the following day would arrive quickly, I had a light supper and retired early to bed. But sleep evaded me and I lay awake as my mind raced. I tried to steer my thoughts away from Nick, sternly telling myself I didn’t know anything about him and, although he seemed a really decent guy, I should try and subdue my feelings until I found out more. Easier said than done.
My thoughts then turned to Dan and I resolved to phone him. Even if he didn’t think about me any more, Lucy couldn’t stop me from contacting him. This, in turn, brought me to thinking about Dan’s friend, the eco publisher, and I made a resolution to contact him early in January to discuss the possibility of submitting ‘green’ articles with a Dorset bias. And then I heard them again and a shiver ran down my spine.
Footsteps on the stairs.
I glanced at the digital clock’s flickering display – 21:33 – and, holding my breath, counted the footfalls. Six, seven, eight and nine… I looked towards the door, again half-expecting it to open, but of course it didn’t. Switching on the light, I walked out onto the landing and looked in the guest room before going downstairs to check the other rooms. Nothing. Frantic scratching at the back door made me jump but it was just Storm announcing his return. He marched in, prickly with indignation.
‘Sorry, boy. Didn’t know you were out there.’
Ignoring me, he immediately went to investigate his bowl. I switched off the lights and climbed the stairs, unconsciously counting the treads as I went. I stopped on step nine and stood for an age, as shivers ran up and down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. There was still one more step to go.
‘Who are you?’ I breathed.
But there was no reply. Not even a whisper.
*
Next morning it was raining again. Storm, having forgiven me for locking him out the previous evening, enthusiastically joined in with the decorating and chased strips of wallpaper around the room. I was working on the last papered wall in the dining room when the phone rang. Breathlessly, I answered.
‘Hi, Maddie. It’s Nick.’
My stomach somersaulted at the sound of his lovely, soft voice.
‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything?’
‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback.
‘Hoped you’d be home,’ he continued. ‘I’ve finished early tonight and wondered if it would be OK to come over now?’
‘Oh!’ I said again, and glanced at my watch.
‘If it’s not convenient I can come another time.’
‘Oh!’ This was getting ridiculous. Get a grip. ‘No. I mean, yes.’ Taking a deep breath, I reined in my emotions. ‘It’s fine.’
He laughed and my cheeks flushed as I heard the amusement in his voice.
‘I’ll see you in thirty minutes.’
I replaced the receiver and groaned. He must think me a gibbering fool. To try and calm my nerves, I returned to stripping wallpaper and it was some minutes later that it occurred to me I probably looked a mess. Downing tools, I ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Great! Not only was I wearing a paint-splattered work shirt but also scrapings of wallpaper were stuck to my face and trapped in my hair. Quickly, I washed my face and was attempting to remove the scrapings from my hair when I heard a knock at the door. I pulled a face at my reflection in the mirror before walking out into the hall.
My nerves were all over the place and I felt sick. Taking a deep breath, I opened the front door as nonchalantly as I could. There he stood with mobile phone in hand, all bunched up in his jacket while trying to shelter from the rain under the small canopy above the front door.
‘Hi,’ I said, standing back to let him in.
‘What weather!’ he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold. ‘Can’t wait to get to the other side of the world.’
I took his jacket, shook the worst of the rain from it and hung it on a hook in the hall.
‘You’ve obviously been busy,’ Nick said, scrutinising me.
‘Yes, nearly finished. Come and see.’
Maddeningly, I felt the beginnings of a blush and quickly turned away. As I walked through to the dining room, he followed and placed his phone on the pine dining table.
‘Looks like you’re winning,’ he said, looking around.
Seeing the impression of the other, older staircase clearly outlined on the wall, he moved closer to investigate. Then, turning, he walked to the window overlooking the village green and looked back at the opposite wall.
‘You know, the original doorway was probably here.’ He indicated to the window. ‘A narrow passageway probably ran front to back with these stairs leading to an upper room.’
‘Do you think this is the original staircase then?’ I asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper.
‘Could be. They were much steeper in earlier centuries. It’s only current building regs that demand a shallower tread. The original was probably little more than a glorified ladder.’
I stared at the nine risers clearly marked on the wall and rubbed goose bumps that suddenly appeared on my arms. The air about me turned thick and still. The world seemed to be holding its breath, full of expectation. Nick said something but I didn’t respond. I couldn’t hear a sound. He turned and looked at me. In the deepening afternoon gloom he appeared as that other man; the one I had seen when I first moved into the cottage. But, as swiftly as it happened, the moment passed. The light was simply playing tricks again.
‘What are you going to do with the walls?’ Nick was asking.
Quickly, I regained my composure. ‘If they’re good enough I’ll give them a lick of paint, if not I’ll plaster them. By the way, I saw your friend Jamie last week.’
‘Did he have anything of interest?’
‘Yes he did. Look.’
He followed me through to the sitting room. Storm was curled up asleep in the chair by the wood burner, as yet unlit, and I watched as Nick gently stroked him. Sleepily opening one eye, the cat coolly surveyed the newcomer.
‘Cracking cat!’ he commented.
I’d propped the bread oven door against the wall beneath the opening. Nick now picked it up and, carefully turning it over in his strong, capable craftsman’s hands, examined it with an appreciative eye.
‘It’s in good condition. I think this shield is part of the Worshipful Company of Farriers Coat of Arms.’
‘Perfect for The Olde Smithy then,’ I commented.
He agreed and held the door up to the opening. It was a good fit.
‘How are you going to secure it?’ he asked.
‘Not sure. I can turn my hand to most things but I don’t think my skills extend that far.’ I glanced through the window at the pub on the other side of the green. ‘Brian says he can point me in the direction of several tradesmen, so I’ll probably ask him.’
Replacing the door on the hearth, Nick turned to me and announced he had better get on with the job he had come to do. I suggested I made tea while he did so and he agreed, telling me he took it white with one sugar. As I busied myself in the kitchen he disappeared upstairs. I heard him switch on the light in the bedroom and then curse under his breath. The next minute he reappeared in the hallway.
