by Judy Nunn
‘Good heavens above, Jane, what happened to you?’ Mrs Cookson had set the family rug out on the grass and was unloading the picnic hamper whilst her younger children played nearby. She looked at the saturated summer dress clinging to Jane’s legs and the ringing wet curls dripping about her shoulders. ‘You’re soaked,’ she remarked, stating the obvious, as Mrs Cookson always did.
Before Jane could reply, Maude Cookson joined them. ‘She took a dunking off Eric Frogmorton’s boat,’ she said. Maude had been leaning on the path railings watching the proceedings. ‘And Lofty nearly capsized, I saw him.’
‘But he won the race,’ Phoebe interjected. ‘Did you see that too?’ Maude Cookson never meant to be rude, she was just blunt and, in Phoebe’s opinion, a bit stupid.
‘Yep, I saw that. He beat Billy-boy.’ Maude was impressed, Billy-boy had been junior champion yachtsman two years in a row.
‘You’d better go home and change, dear, you wouldn’t want to catch a chill now,’ Mrs Cookson said, and Jane and Phoebe made their escape.
Jane was thankful that her father had already left to meet his mates and the house was deserted.
‘What will you tell him about that?’ Phoebe nodded at the chafe marks around Jane’s throat.
‘I’ll think of a story,’ Jane said vaguely, ‘an accident with a skipping rope or something. I won’t get Lofty into trouble, it wasn’t his fault.’
When she’d changed, they sat on the little bench beside the vegetable garden.
‘Nobody knows what happened except us.’ It was Phoebe who broke the silence. ‘They saw it, Billy-boy and Maude and probably dozens of others. But nobody knows what happened.’ It was a sobering thought.
‘What did happen, Phoebe?’
‘You nearly drowned, that’s what happened.’
‘I did drown,’ Jane said, ‘and you saved me.’
‘It was Lofty who did the lifesaving, he got you breathing.’
Jane shook her head. ‘I’d drowned before that. And you pulled me back.’
‘I held on to your hand, that’s all.’
‘No it’s not. There was more than that.’ Jane wondered how she could explain to Phoebe the experience she’d had. The drifting feeling, the certain knowledge that she was floating away to another place. And then the knowledge that Phoebe had brought her back. ‘There was much, much more than that.’
‘Yes,’ Phoebe said. ‘I know.’ And Jane realised there was no need for explanation, just as there was no answer to what had happened.
That night, along with hundreds of others gathered on the recreation ground, Jane and Phoebe watched the procession of illuminated boats parade down the creek. It was the highlight of the regatta. They watched the bonfire on Cams Point across the water, and the firework display, the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of the crowd echoing about them as each fresh spectacle lit up the sky.
As they watched, Jane felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that she was alive to see it, and beside her she felt Phoebe take her hand. They turned to look at each other. Phoebe knew what she was thinking. Jane had died and come back to life and Phoebe had been with her the whole time. Phoebe had shared in her death, and their lives were now forever linked. They stood side by side holding hands, and together they looked up at the fireworks.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sam awoke with little recall of the details of her dreams, but the images remained vivid. Two young girls, one dark, one fair, and the sound of their laughter still rang in her ears. They’d been playing in the stables, up here in the loft where her bed now was, but there had been a trapdoor, and a wide ladder had led to the tack room and the vacant horse stalls below. Just the way she imagined the stables might once have been.
She pondered the images as she ate her bowl of breakfast cereal. She’d been affected by the stories of the past, she realised. She remembered Mrs M saying that Phoebe Chisolm had loved to play in the stables as a child. One of the girls must have been Phoebe, or rather her own image of what Phoebe might have looked like as a child, but who was the other?
There was a tap on the door and, as if on cue, a familiar voice with a thick Hampshire accent called from outside. ‘Anyone home?’
‘Mrs M!’ Sam embraced the woman who, despite the passage of nine years, didn’t appear to have changed one bit. ‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked as she ushered her inside.
‘You can’t keep a secret in Fareham, dear,’ Mrs M beamed, her eyes crinkling with pleasure. ‘It’s all around the borough that you’ve bought the house. I even heard about it in Portsmouth, I live there with Betty now. Oh you have done the stables up a treat,’ she said looking around, ‘and in just one day, how extraordinary.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Mrs M sat heavily in one of the armchairs whilst Sam busied herself behind the island bench. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard. I certainly didn’t think it would come to that when I sent you the leaflet, but when I found out –’
‘You sent the leaflet?’ The electric jug overflowed as Sam looked up from the sink.
‘Yes, I don’t know why. Just on a whim. Didn’t you know it was me?’ Sam shook her head. ‘Good heavens, I must have forgotten to put in a note. How silly. I’ve been following your career with such interest, you know. I sent it as a memento really, it had such a nice picture of Chisolm House on it. I certainly didn’t expect you to buy the place, though. You could have knocked me down with –’
‘But how did you get hold of it?’
‘Get hold of what, dear?’
‘The leaflet.’ Jim Lofthouse had said they hadn’t been distributed, Sam recalled.
‘Oh, it just landed in my letterbox, somebody obviously knew of my connection with Chisolm House. Now tell me, dear,’ Mrs M was off on a tangent once again, ‘were you thrilled when you saw them? Did you wonder how they got there? I so wanted to take you by surprise.’
Things were moving too fast for Sam. She felt as if she were in a ping-pong match with a vastly superior opponent. ‘How what got where?’ she asked.
‘The portrait. Phoebe Chisolm’s portrait and the family photograph,’ Mrs M explained. In the brief silence which followed she gave another expansive beam. ‘You didn’t guess it was me. Oh I am so glad. I wanted to give you a special moment. I know that you have such a feeling for this house.’
‘Yes I do. And I believe the house has a feeling for me.’ The words had popped out automatically, and Sam felt presumptuous and rather foolish.
‘Oh it does, dear, I’m quite sure of that.’ Martha Montgomery found the statement neither presumptuous nor foolish. ‘That’s why I returned the portrait and the photograph to their rightful home. They wouldn’t belong here with someone who felt no affinity with the house and its past.’
Sam had a dozen questions to ask of the woman as they sat drinking their tea but, as usual, Mrs M waxed loquacious and the questions were answered before Sam could voice them. Jim Lofthouse had been more than happy to allow her access to the house, she said, and, at her suggestion, he’d arranged the delivery of the shrub in the white clay pot. ‘A little homey touch by way of welcome.’ But it had been Jim himself who had organised a gardener to clean up the front garden. ‘He’s a very nice fellow, Jim Lofthouse,’ she said.
The most interesting part of Mrs M’s story was how she herself had come to acquire the portrait and the photograph. ‘I saw Miss Chisolm in the last days of August,’ she said, ‘just before the end. She passed over on the first of September, you know, the first day of autumn, her favourite month. And I’m quite convinced in my mind that she planned it, for she was as lucid as you and me in those final days. “Now Martha,” she said, “the portrait and the family photograph are to go to you, and you’re to do with them as you see fit.” She meant something by it, I’m sure she did. I was to be their keeper, that’s what she was saying. And when I heard that you’d bought the place, I knew they were meant to come home where the
y rightfully belong.’
‘But the portrait is valuable, Mrs M,’ Sam said. ‘You can’t just give it away, it could be worth quite a sum of money.’
‘Oh my dear,’ Mrs M was instantly dismissive, ‘as if I could ever sell it. And I’ve no need for money, I’m retired now, I’ve no need to work at all. Although I do a little child-minding at a preschool just down the road from Betty’s,’ she added, ‘I love the kiddies, and I like to keep myself busy. Miss Chisolm left me with a healthy annuity, you see. Like I said, she had her wits about her right there at the end. Sharp as a tack, she was, as if her mind had never wandered at all. “You’ve been a godsend to me, Martha,” she said, “in these final years”.’
Mrs M was suddenly overcome with emotion and fumbled for her handkerchief in the voluminous handbag which sat on her lap. ‘And then she said, “You’ll be a godsend to me yet, what’s more,” and I’ve no idea what she meant, for it’s she who’s been a godsend to me and that’s the truth.’ She dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose unapologetically and, fully recovered, returned her handkerchief to her handbag. ‘Oh yes, I’ve no financial worries until the day I die, thanks to Miss Chisolm, God bless her.’
The morning passed quickly over more tea and more chat. They talked about Sam’s plans and her career, and Mrs M’s grandchildren, now fully grown and, as Martha Montgomery was about to take her leave, Sam suddenly remembered what she’d wanted to ask the woman.
‘Mrs M, did Phoebe Chisolm have a particularly close friend when she was a child? A girl about the same age?’
‘Oh dear me, yes. Jane Miller was her name. Of course I only knew Miss Chisolm as an elderly lady, but she spoke a great deal of her childhood and Jane Miller. In fact she spoke of little else. She rarely talked about the bad times, and why should she? Poor darling, she’d had her share. Childhood was precious, she said, and a child’s happiness sacred. Why do you ask?’
‘I had a dream,’ Sam said, once again feeling a little foolish.
‘Really?’ Mrs M was instantly fascinated; she believed very much in dreams and premonitions and the like.
‘Two young girls were playing in the stables.’
‘Yes, that would have been Phoebe and Jane.’ Mrs M nodded in all seriousness. ‘Miss Chisolm told me the stables was their favourite hideout. How interesting.’ She leaned forward in her armchair, cuddling her handbag to her ample bosom. ‘How very, very interesting.’
‘Oh probably just autosuggestion on my part.’ Sam didn’t particularly wish to pursue such a fanciful conversation. Of course Phoebe Chisolm would have had a special friend. What little girl didn’t? She was surprised that she’d asked the question of Mrs M at all. But then the dream had been so vivid.
‘Autosuggestion?’ Mrs M queried with a touch of disbelief. ‘Perhaps.’ Then she added enigmatically, ‘and perhaps not. One never really knows, does one?’ She heaved herself out of her chair. She would love to have chatted on, but she’d promised Betty she’d help with afternoon tea for the Ladies’ Auxiliary. ‘Well, I’d best be off, dear.’
She was catching the next train back to Portsmouth and refused Sam’s offer to get her a taxi to the station. ‘Good gracious me, no,’ she said, ‘I need all the exercise I can get, so the doctor says, and I enjoy a healthy walk.’
‘Good luck with the film, dear,’ she said as they hugged each other outside in the courtyard, ‘it all sounds most exciting.’ Sam had promised that she would be in touch as soon as she returned to Fareham after the movie’s completion. ‘And in the meantime,’ Mrs M vowed, ‘we’ll keep an eye on Chisolm House for you, the three of us.’ In answer to Sam’s querying look, she said with a smile, ‘Jim Lofthouse and me, and Phoebe of course.’
It was lunchtime when Sam finally ventured out, and she was ravenous. She devoured a sandwich sitting in one of the myriad cafes in one of the myriad arcades in the huge shopping complex, after which her first planned port of call was to be the liquor store where she’d buy a bottle of Scotch for Jim Lofthouse.
She cut through one of the arcades which led to the West Street mall and, as she did so, she noticed a sign in a jewellery shop window: WE STOCK FROGMORTON SILVER. Beside the sign was a display of exquisitely crafted souvenir spoons amongst which stood several figurines. Lovely as they were, none of them was as fine as her silver horse, Sam thought. The horse now lived in her makeup kit, wrapped in a small velvet cloth, to be taken out and placed upon her dressing-room table whenever she was performing. It had become her good luck charm. She should have told Mrs M that, and she reminded herself to do so the next time they met.
Lunchtime crowds thronged the pedestrian mall as she passed by Westbury Manor, the beautifully restored Georgian building converted to a proud town museum. She’d collected a brochure there on her very first walk around Fareham all those years ago, she remembered. She must pay a more comprehensive visit to the museum, she promised herself as she walked the further block to the bottle shop.
Jane and Phoebe had wriggled through to the front of the crowd that lined the expanse of West Street as the procession made its way up from the cattle markets. They had the very best vantage point outside the once fine home of Westbury Manor, now shabby and serving as council offices, and they waved their flags and souvenir programmes in the air, calling out to people they knew in the parade.
At the head of the procession, clearing the way, was Eric Frogmorton in his father’s brand new, shiny green Vauxhall sedan. Mr Frogmorton was seated beside him in the passenger seat, having allowed his son the honour of driving. Through the open car window, Eric briefly acknowledged the girls before returning his full focus to the task at hand and the crowds. He was terrified that someone might scratch his father’s pride and joy and that he’d get the blame for it.
‘Phoebe! Jane!’ It was Lofty waving a gangly arm above the heads of the Fareham cricket XI as they marched past in their flannels; they’d won the Borough Shield that year.
Then came the brass band and the cadets from the naval academy, then the horse-drawn carriages, and the floats sponsored by local businesses. Some were decked with flowers, some displayed local produce in intricate designs, and on one float the members of the dramatic society posed impressively in period costume.
The Fareham Coronation Celebrations were a sight to behold and, to Phoebe, they held a special significance. One which she had marked upon her souvenir programme. On the front of the programme were pictures of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, together with the date, 12th May, 1937, and on Phoebe’s programme, beneath the date, she had printed, in her very best hand, ‘my birthday’.
‘To turn seventeen on Coronation Day is an omen,’ she had remarked to Jane, and she’d said it with the greatest solemnity. To Phoebe, the coincidental date of the monarch’s coronation and her own birthday was no accident. It had been preordained, and was of the utmost consequence. She wasn’t sure how, but there was always a purpose in such things, she told Jane.
Jane secretly thought that Phoebe’s fancies were running away with her as they often did, but she loved Phoebe far too much to mar her day by saying anything of so practical a nature. Now, as they waved their flags and their programmes and thrilled with the crowds to the excitement of it all, Jane yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Happy birthday, Phoebe!’
And Phoebe, acknowledging the tribute, smiled with all the warmth and self-assurance of one deserving of such homage on this, her very special day.
Sam couldn’t help smiling as she stepped out of the bottle shop. The man behind the counter had welcomed her as a local. ‘Good on you Miss Lindsay, you’re one of us now,’ he’d said. It made her feel very special.
She’d bought a bottle of Glenfiddich. She wasn’t sure if Jim Lofthouse was a single malt man or whether he preferred a blended whisky, perhaps he wasn’t even a Scotch drinker at all. But the bottle was expensive and in a nice presentation box, and it was the thought that counted anyway.
She crossed the road to the real estate office near the cor
ner of Trinity Street, and opened the door to discover the young secretary hunched over her computer, but no Jim.
‘It’s his lunch break,’ the girl said. ‘He’s around the corner at the pub. You could pop in and see him there if you like.’
‘Oh no,’ Sam replied, ‘he’s probably having a drink with some mates, I wouldn’t want to interrupt him.’
Samantha Lindsay seemed nice after all, Peggy Shortall thought. She’d been bloody rude last time she’d come in to the office. ‘He doesn’t drink.’
‘Ah.’ Sam glanced down at the bright yellow plastic carry bag which housed the Scotch.
‘And he doesn’t go there to meet mates, half the time he doesn’t even go there for lunch.’ Aware that an explanation was necessary, Peggy added, ‘He just goes there to suck down as many fags as he can in an hour.’
‘Oh well, I still won’t interrupt him. How long do you think he’ll be?’
Peggy looked at her watch. ‘Half an hour.’
‘Fine, I’ll come back then. Do you mind if I leave this here?’ Sam dumped the carry bag on the counter, and Peggy looked at the bright yellow plastic with the eminently recognisable liquor store insignia. ‘I bought him a present,’ Sam said with a rueful shrug.
‘He’ll like that.’ Peggy smiled for the first time. ‘He’s got lots of friends who drink.’
Sam decided to walk down to the Quay. It was a fine day, and she sat on a bench in the recreation park, looking at the boats on the water and the dinghies listing in the low-tide mud. It was so timeless, she thought. So timeless and so peaceful.
‘Jane?’
The voice was right beside her and Sam turned to see an elderly woman seated next to her on the bench, staring at her intently. She’d been unaware of the woman’s approach, her mind had been so blissfully blank.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘my name’s Samantha. Samantha Lindsay.’
