by Lorna Gray
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
A note on the text
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Guide
Cover
Title page
Contents
The Book Ghost
LORNA GRAY
One More Chapter
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Lorna Gray 2019
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover images © Taras Atamaniv / Shutterstock.com
Lorna Gray asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008368258
Ebook Edition © December 2019 ISBN: 9780008380120
Version: 2019-12-06
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
A note on the text
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
For all the people who have contributed to the making of this book
Chapter 1
December 1946, Moreton-in-Marsh
My grandmother and mother performed a rather unusual war service. Through the medium of regular séances, they worked – and still do work – to guide the wandering souls of poor lost soldiers out of the filthy quagmire of war.
There were some, they say, who found the shock of their violent end so sudden and so disorientating that it bewildered their soul. The living senses might have made the switch from the roar of bombs to the silence of the hereafter, but the shadow of the men they had been would sometimes remain there still. Detached from the nightmare of the battlefield, but bound to it; staggered and confused.
The process of reaching them called for no miasma, no rattling tables. My grandmother and her little gathering of fellow spiritualists simply treasured the serious belief that they were extending a kindly hand to those rudderless souls, before steering them first towards acceptance, and secondly into peace.
When my husband was killed, I refused flatly to let them do it.
I couldn’t bear to think of his soul being stranded in those dismal terms. And not because I was selfish, or enjoyed the kind of superior cynicism that masquerades as lucid reason. Everyone has their own way of dealing with loss. But for me it felt as if real selfishness would dwell in that sort of calling out of his name. I would never stand by while they did it without me, but if I joined them and some part of it worked, my husband might learn the truth from me – that I didn’t want to let him go.
Because, real or not, it would never feel like whispering a tender farewell to him across the divide. It would be like calling him back.
It would feel like I was telling him flatly that I can grasp him wherever he is, and that I mean to shackle him to me, when surely, of all things, I have to trust in the deeper workings of my heart and believe he has already found his release.
So, for now, I keep to life and leave my husband well alone.
I was first carried home to this place by that feeling eight weeks ago. This was the time, after all, when our newfound peace was stumbling towards its second Christmas in all the monotony of rationing. And in the spirit of the year’s end and the time of darkness and so on, it has lately seemed to me that nowhere was a better light shining for me than in my uncle’s little book printing business in the north Cotswolds town of Moreton-in-Marsh.
I was enjoying the process of reacquainting myself with his busy little first floor office, above the street front shop and the narrow printworks in the outbuildings behind. My uncle wasn’t staid, but his building was.
The rooms for Kershaw and Kathay Book Press Ltd ought to have belonged to a legal office or an academic’s study. Every surface was made of dark wood, and quiet studiousness had taken root in the dry corners behind the cabinets.
There were three of us working up here on the first floor. Robert Underhill was my uncle’s second-in-command, and he had the office that ran in a narrow line along the end wall from front to back. He also had possession of one of the fireplaces and the first of the windows that overlooked the street. For the few hours when the winter’s day outside grew bright enough to have any effect, white lines showed in the warped gaps between the wooden panels that divided his space from mine.
My uncle’s office occupied the other two windows at the front of the building. My desk was set in the square area behind. My view was of those closed office doors and the thin glass of the screen that stopped the draught from the stairs.
At present this small reception area also contained a member of the public by the name of Miss Prichard who was beaming at me through the unflattering glare of my electric lamp.
Miss Prichard hadn’t come to see me. She had come to thrust her manuscript under the nose of Mr Underhill, only he was out – as he had often been during this last week or so – and my uncle was shut up in his office muttering vagaries on the telephone.
She and her felt hat were sitting in my guest chair, looking every inch the aged housekeeper she was claiming to be with a story to tell about an old doctor who had employed her to keep house for him in the 1920s. I believe she took it as a sign of our se
riousness as a publisher that she was being interviewed by the woman who answered the telephone and wrote Uncle George’s letters.
‘It’s very thrilling,’ she confessed, ‘to be in here at last. I suppose the editors are terribly busy.’ She kept running her eyes across the closed doors as though waiting for someone important to bustle out, proving that only by sheer luck and cunning had a small author such as her found a way in.
I thought that it was at times like these that my real job began.
I had been taken on because my aunt had retired. Aunt Mabel’s hands had grown too arthritic and I was stepping in to fill the gap. I had been told that my aunt was the chief tea-maker – to ensure I understood the limitations of what the family company could do for me, presumably – but I was already learning that I was performing a fundamentally larger role in this business.
I was lending prestige to our two editors, Uncle George and Robert Underhill, because it transpired that new authors of the sort who would pay for the services of Kershaw and Kathay Book Press Ltd really liked to feel the weight of the towering intellects couched behind those enticingly unwelcome closed doors.
There was a sort of tradition in it, I suppose. I imagine it matched their general idea of the marvellously grand publishing houses of the capital city, only on a more intimate, old-time scale.
Those London publishing houses weren’t very like us really, though. Uncle George didn’t have their degree of clout with the government agency in charge of paper supplies. Instead, he worked to produce the smaller treasures of the literary world – the unusual memoirs, the local histories and the unsung gem of a novel – all bound in sturdy little hardbacks about the size of a Victorian pocket book. Needless to say, there wasn’t a lot of money in it.
And also needless to say, the process of submitting a manuscript to us was actually managed without anyone being required to negotiate their way past me; when I wasn’t the gatekeeper, and rudeness was hardly my uncle’s forte, and Mr Underhill barely spoke at all.
Miss Prichard was smiling at me again as she set down her teacup on its saucer. ‘I did catch your name correctly, didn’t I? Mrs Peuse?’
‘You did. Mrs Lucinda Peuse. It isn’t a terribly nice name, is it? The staff here call me Mrs P. The lady who runs the shop downstairs started it, and then the abbreviation caught on like wildfire.’
‘Well,’ Miss Prichard replied comfortably, ‘I suppose it’s easier than a surname which might stray close to sounding like “peas” in the local accent, or “puce”, when I gather it simply ought to sound like “pews”?’
‘Precisely.’
My family called me Lucy.
My visitor was getting up to leave. Then the door from the stairs opened with a waft of damp air as a man of about thirty stepped in and moved quietly past us with only an idle eye for my visitor. The door for Mr Underhill’s office was pressed shut behind him. Miss Prichard turned back to me. Her eyes briefly widened to silently enquire whether this pleasantly built stranger had indeed been the great editor himself. I smiled and tipped my head. It created the right impression.
I told her, ‘Thank you for coming. I’ll pass on my notes and your papers to Mr Underhill or Mr Kathay later today. Either way, I’m sure you’ll hear from us soon.’
She let herself out. And I, in the moment of hearing her footfalls creak down to the turn and away into the small shop below, felt again the odd stillness that sometimes followed in the wake of any bustle in this building.
Anything that happened here by day passed away behind a closed door or into another room, and always the tired wooden floorboards added their solemn voices to the distant tale. They stayed with me at night too because there was another door in the wall between the stairs and my uncle’s office. It led to the attic where my bedroom lay.
My night-times were spent nestling in the space beyond the office kitchen and a storeroom that housed an awful lot of unsold books.
‘That was Doctor Bates’ landlady, wasn’t it?’
Mr Underhill’s question made me jump.
I found that I had left my seat but paused in the act of moving past my desk. I had hesitated with my fingertips just touching the base of my lamp. It was as if the severe pool of light had become my anchor in the midst of that curious sense of being very much alone after the woman had left.
I turned my head. He couldn’t have been aware of the silence of this place because it didn’t dwell behind his office door. Clouds were streaking across the sky outside his window but, even so, daylight was streaming in and brightening the floor beside his desk.
I told him, smiling, ‘Landlady to a doctor may be a fair description of her business, but appearances are deceptive. I vaguely remember the doctor who had the practice before the fellow who sold it to Doctor Bates. About twenty years ago he was the town’s greatest claim to fame. I think he found his way to developing a new vaccine. By the time I knew him he was a crabbed old man and adored her, so if the lady’s book even begins to stray into their little tale of rich and poor, it’ll be pretty inflammatory stuff.’
I was speaking with one of those cheery undertones that didn’t really mean to convey anything except perhaps my relief at being interrupted. Only then his mouth merely mustered something far short of his usual brief smile, before he asked me to join him in his office.
His reaction surprised me, actually. It wasn’t normal for him to embarrass me by making it seem as if I had been attempting to gossip about the lady’s unmarried state, and it wasn’t normal either for him to summon me to his desk.
Over the past two months since I had joined this office, we’d exchanged pleasantries about the weather or some future publication or other that he was editing, but very little more. My unbound cheeriness shocked him sometimes, I knew, but I could usually tell when that had happened because he’d retreat to his desk – which was, admittedly, just as he was doing at present – and I’d settle into collecting up whatever papers I had for him before moving to follow.
Usually, I was glad of it. Quiet reserve was what I was used to from him. It kept us safely clear of that other extreme of the office workplace – the one where my little slips into unchained friendliness would have been exploited as an excuse to be over familiar, as only a higher ranking male in business might. But he had never preyed on any mistakes of mine.
So I suppose what I’m trying to say is that in the main I found his uncomplicated style of company wonderfully restful. Whereas this moment was different, because it was unlike him to make me uncomfortable.
None of this was remotely exciting enough for Amy Briar who ran the bookshop below us. She couldn’t understand him at all.
She had told me that he had been one of those poor unfortunate men who had gone over in the first wave and been captured almost on the spot. He’d been a prisoner of war until the cessation of hostilities in ’45. Amy couldn’t comprehend why any man would choose, after all those years of incarceration, to settle in this small town business when he might have seized freedom with both hands and claimed every excitement with it.
I remember thinking simply: what a waste war had made of five years of life.
Today, as I handed Miss Prichard’s manuscript to him across his desk, I was realising that at least part of the embarrassment I was feeling came from knowing that it was eleven o’clock and my uncle’s second-in-command had barely stepped into the office. And he had immediately approached me with a question about our work, only to catch me staring into the shadows when I ought to have been busy too.
There had been a subtle touch of hesitation in his interruption, like concern when I didn’t want it. Now he made everything worse by accepting the manuscript from my hand and remarking, ‘Hearing you say all that about Miss Prichard’s memoir, it seems to me as if you and I ought to be trading jobs. My experience in publishing only runs to about nine months, whereas yours runs to years. Don’t you mind settling for taking the messages?’
His eyes briefly lifted from the manuscrip
t in his hand. He really was different today.
This was the change that had been brewing over the course of all his little absences of late – a harder energy which ran itself back into stillness through a pattern of asking me more about myself than was the norm.
I thought he did it whenever something had unsettled his peace of mind. This time, though, I couldn’t help stiffening to say in a clipped sort of voice, ‘That’s an oddly challenging question, Mr Underhill.’
Then I caught the sound of my own defensiveness. It made me add more cheerfully, ‘It isn’t that I mind, exactly, that you might occasionally require more from me than a harmless chat about the weather. But didn’t you know that you aren’t supposed to draw attention to the smallness of my role?’
Because he was right in a way – I was an experienced editor. I’d spent a good portion of my own war years working on the staff of the regional ministry office. I'd won one of those under-reported roles that basically required me to ensure that all information leaflets and posters and National Savings campaigns were adjusted to be relevant to the local population. So, thanks to me, a Mrs Whatsit from Ham Cottage had known that in the event of invasion, her emergency food distribution point would be the such-and-such building in Stratford-upon-Avon.
Then, as it happened, the German tanks hadn’t invaded. The leaflets had been made redundant and so had I. And, with that in mind, this unsolicited comment on my new role here was a bit like that question mark which hangs over the way people talk about the cleaning ladies and the servers. Dignity was a very delicate thing.
In my case, and the case of an awful lot of women like me, everyone knew how much we’d slaved for the great machine of war when we’d filled the void left by the departing men. They knew too how we were being cheerfully relegated once more to the role of underling now that peace had brought the survivors home again. And yet absolutely no one except a few restless youths ever dared to actually comment on it. Because who amongst us knew what complaint to make, when we were all poor and those war-shaken men had to have the chance to feel that normality was re-emerging somehow?
