She started to pace around the room, the notion of getting any sleep being laughable. The more she tried to piece things together the more she came to a single conclusion, and it was not a reassuring one: when she had taken the chatelaine into the blind house she had been transported to somewhere and some time other than her own time and place. She had, in point of fact, time traveled.
“Ha!” She was unable to stop herself laughing aloud at having even thought such a thing with any seriousness. “Xanthe Westlake, you are losing your mind!” she told herself. Was it the stress of the events of the last year? Being betrayed by Marcus, ending up unjustly accused and prosecuted for something she had not done, spending time in jail, giving up on her singing career, and seeing her parents’ marriage disintegrate? It was, to be fair, enough to tip any reasonable person over some sort of edge. Was this what a nervous breakdown looked like? Did such things truly drive a person to madness?
She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and stared at the saturated skirt. There were two options, it seemed. Either she had traveled back in time, temporarily, or she was going mad, possibly permanently.
“Great choices,” she said to the room.
To stop herself feeling as if she were losing control of her mind she focused on what exactly it was that she had seen. On what precisely any of it meant. There was a place that was unfamiliar to her, though it looked like any small slice of rural Britain, with its rolling greenery, the usual trees, and the easily recognizable damp climate. And the voice she had heard had been speaking English. There were still leaves on the trees, but they had started to turn, she remembered, so that meant autumn. Not summer, like it was in her real, feet-on-the-ground, sensible existence. She took a deep breath and listed what else she might dare to call facts. A girl in a carriage, scared out of her wits, apparently being taken at speed somewhere she did not wish to go. And she had looked at Xanthe. Right at her. Had seen her. That was one of the few things she felt completely certain about. Not that it made her feel any better. Why her? What did the chatelaine have to do with the girl? And why did the little jail trigger such a thing? Xanthe had connected with found treasures before, certainly, but nothing like this. It had to be the combination of the piece of antique silver and the jail. Was the place haunted? There was certainly what felt like a presence there. Something besides the panicking girl. Could it be that there were well-known ghost stories about the town, or even the shop itself?
At last, exhaustion began to get the better of her. She clambered into bed and closed her eyes, hoping against hope that she might sleep without dreaming. It was all too big to face all in one go. She decided she would do some research regarding local legends and stories, as well as investigating the origins of the building itself. If she was not to consider herself falling into madness she had to find a way of making sense of what had happened to her.
The next morning life continued with surprising normality. Xanthe’s head might have been full of impossible things, but for the rest of the world it was simply business as usual. It was almost shocking to find herself getting on with everyday, mundane life while her mind struggled to come to terms with the enormity of what was at the bottom of their ordinary-looking garden. After a few fitful hours of sleep she had risen and pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and boots. She shared a quick breakfast with Flora and then persuaded her to go with her to the high street to buy paint for the shop.
Outside, the little cobbled street looked particularly pretty in the morning sunshine. Hanging baskets and window boxes of pansies and geraniums with trailing ivy softened the ancient brick walls of the shops. Flora gamely struck out across the rounded stones on her crutches, and not for the first time Xanthe admired her mother’s dexterity.
“The going is easier in the high street, Mum. Do you want me to take your bag for you?”
Flora ignored the offer. “All I need is some new rubber ferrules for my sticks. There must be an outdoorsy shop here where I can buy some. Only a few more yards.” She hobbled on, her expression giving away the effort the short journey was costing her.
The smoother paving stones that bordered the high street were far simpler for her mother to navigate. What neither of them had anticipated was the bustle of shoppers so early in the day.
“Wow,” said Xanthe, “They take Market Day a bit seriously around here.”
The high street being so unusually broad allowed room for the market stalls to be set up down the middle of it. Traffic was light and slow moving, giving way to pedestrians, whether stall holders or shoppers, so that the loudest sounds were the shouts of the traders as they advertised their wares. The stalls themselves were open-sided with red- or blue-striped canvas roofs and awnings, giving the place the feel of a carnival. The three dozen or so traders offered a tempting range of produce, crafts, and general supplies. Xanthe could see someone selling homemade cider, another stall boasting artisan beer brewed from local hops, two bakers, a butcher, a particularly colorful stall selling hand-dyed wool, a florist and garden plant supplier, a display of patchwork materials and quilts, some pottery, three fruit and veg stalls, one offering freshly made smoothies. It was an almost bewildering selection.
“Hmm, now this is my kind of shopping.” Flora was smiling. “This could take a little longer than expected.” So saying she stick-step-sticked her way to the nearest stall, no doubt lured by the aroma of freshly made pies.
“Mum, the paint?”
“I’ll leave that to you, love,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll see if I can pick up a few interesting things here. Meet you back at the shop later, OK?” And with that she disappeared into the throng.
Xanthe felt the tension in her shoulders ease a fraction. Seeing her mother cheered up by the market, happy in her new hometown, her pain forgotten for the moment, was a welcome relief from the perpetual worry she carried about her. Turning up the street, Xanthe headed in the direction of the hardware stall she could see near the top of the hill. She had every intention of buying the paint quickly and returning to the shop to start decorating. She could not, however, shake away thoughts of what had happened to her only a matter of hours ago. She had to search for answers, to try and find facts on which to at least build a theory.
With this in mind, she stepped into a corner shop that sold maps and guidebooks on the area. She thumbed through lists of best pubs, finest views, wonderful walks, and so on, and even found a book entirely about local ghost stories. It was while she was reading this that a familiar Scottish voice interrupted her.
“You’ll be giving yourself nightmares with that, hen,” said Harley. He looked even larger and more of a biker now that she saw him out from behind the bar. He nodded at the book in her hand. “Is it the ghosts ye’re interested in or the local history?” he asked.
“Oh, both. Neither, possibly,” she said, sliding the book back onto the shelf. “Just trying to find out … stuff.” Harley gave her a look, clearly picking up on her reluctance to be more specific. She chose another book and flicked through it. “You know, local stories. History of the houses. That kind of thing.”
He nodded. “Aye, it’s good to learn about your new home. And there’s plenty to discover around here, if it’s history you’re after. Or the unexplained.”
“Sorry?”
He took the book from her and held it up, pointing to the title she had not read. “Ley Lines of Wiltshire. Fascinating stuff.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, aye. Ancient lines of incredible power and strange occurrences, particularly at points of convergence. If you’ve a mind to believe that kinda thing. This place is riddled with them.”
“Strange occurrences?”
He put the book back on the shelf. “Come away back with me to The Feathers. I’ll show ye a map of the things.”
“I really ought to get back at the shop.…”
“Tsk, ye’ve time for a cup of coffee with your new neighbor now, surely to God?” he said, taking a newspaper, waving it at the
shopkeeper, and holding the door open for her.
Xanthe had never been in a pub at breakfast time before. It was surprisingly clean and fresh smelling after the busy Friday night. Sunshine was streaming in through the low, small-squared windows, picking out the gleaming brasses hanging around the fireplace. The heavy black beams and broad floorboards gave an impression that the inn had changed little in centuries. Harley left her sitting at the bar while he disappeared to fetch the promised coffee and map. She glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece. Already she had been gone half an hour and not purchased the paint. She told herself that her mother would still be happily browsing the market stalls. She considered texting her to make sure she was OK, but Harley reappeared quickly.
“Here we are,” he said, setting down a tray of coffee and taking a rolled map from beneath his arm. He unfurled it on the bar and weighted down the corners with bottles of brown ale. It was a map of the whole county of Wiltshire, showing the major towns, some of the smaller villages, and landmarks, but no roads or railways. Instead it had perfectly straight lines drawn upon it in red.
“Now, ye can see just how many ley lines crisscross the county. Right from Old Sarum, with its Iron Age hill fort, up and along through Stonehenge, of course, the mother of all ancient energy sources, right through the middle of the Preshute White Horse up here…” His enthusiasm for what they were looking at was infectious.
“There certainly are lots,” she agreed. “And you say they have … special energy?”
“So it is believed, aye.”
“But, who put them there? I mean, what are they for?”
“Nobody rightly knows. They are very, very old. You see, people long ago identified these lines and then built important places upon them. They believed they could tap into that unseen power, and that it would be a positive influence on whatever stood upon it. That’s why there are so many churches and cathedrals connected by Ley lines. See? Here, and … here.”
Xanthe peered closer. “Are there any that go through Marlborough itself?” she asked.
“Indeed there are, two beauties. This one is one of the longest known, from west to east, plum through the center of the town”—he ran a finger along it—“And the other is north-south, d’you see? And the two cross one another right … here.” He followed the second one with the index finger of his other hand until the two met. “Well, will ye look at that,” he said brightly. “I’d not noticed that before. The point of convergence is right about where old Mr. Morris’s shop is. Or I should say, where your shop is. Yup, right about there. You, hen, have an ancient point of convergence in your very back garden!”
She left The Feathers with two books Harley had been happy to lend her. One was on ley lines, and the other was entitled Mysterious Buildings of Wiltshire. She hurried to the hardware store and bought quantities of white emulsion, before heading back to the shop. She was quite breathless from rushing by the time she arrived, and her head was racing, working on all manner of possible answers to impossible questions regarding the little jail. The whole concept of ley lines was new to her, but already she could see that the position of the old stone building was as significant as its original purpose, if not more so.
The bell clanked as she entered the shop, where she found Flora and, to her surprise, Liam.
“There you are,” her mother said. “I was just about to send out a search party. Look, you have a visitor.”
Liam grinned and held up a small, brown parcel. “Your wing mirror came,” he said. “Thought I’d pop it over. Can’t have you dicing with the crazy Wiltshire traffic without it.”
“Maybe I should fit bars on the front, too,” said Xanthe, putting down her paint and books. If Flora noticed the titles she didn’t say so, but she saw Liam frown at the one on ley lines. Did all local people know about those sorts of things? He had told her that he had grown up in the town, and for a moment she contemplated asking him about the jailhouse, but where could that conversation go? How could she start to talk about her bizarre experiences with someone she had only just met? Then again, in some ways it might be easier than discussing such things with her mother.
“You’ve been busy,” Liam said, looking at the emptied shop.
“Painting next,” Flora told him. “And then fitting everything back in, getting the displays right … there’s lots to be done.”
Xanthe went to take the side mirror from him. “Thanks for getting this,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”
He held on to it. “I’ll fit it for you.”
“I can do it myself,” she said, a little more sharply than she had intended. How long would it take for her instinct to defend herself to become less sharp, she wondered?
Liam did not react as some might have, did not become defensive himself. He simply gave another broad grin and said, “I bet you can do just about everything and anything to that lovely taxi that she needs. She’s a fine car, very fine. Tell you what, I’ll fit your mirror if you take me out for a spin in her. I’d love to see how she runs. I could give you a quick tour of the area, take you to see one of the famous white horses. The view from the top of the downs is quite something. You can see the whole town spread out before you.”
“Oh, I don’t know.…” She glanced at Flora. “We’ve so much to do here.” She was surprised to find that in fact she wanted to go with him. But then, she knew it was not Liam who interested her. It was what he could tell her about the mysterious place that she now called her home. And what she might discover by seeing it from another perspective.
Seeing her hesitate he said, “When we get back I could give you a hand with the decorating. Two of us would get it done in no time at all, I reckon. What do you say, Mrs. Westlake?”—he turned to her mother—“Can Xanthe have a bit of time off for good behavior?”
Xanthe flinched. He could not have known what the common reference to a prison term, so lightly and casually used, could have meant to them. She wondered how her mother would react. She saw Flora take a breath, and then, as if she decided that her daughter needed to be allowed to take time away from all the things they had to do, all the things in life that had to be dealt with, she smiled.
“I don’t see why not,” Flora said, “especially if it means I get an extra worker for a few hours later on.”
“Great!” said Liam. “I like you antique people, you know how to strike a deal.”
Flora laughed. “Mind who you’re calling ‘antique’!”
“Do I get a say in this?” Xanthe asked, secretly glad to have had the decision made for her.
Flora waved them toward the door. “No. Now go on, off with you, before I change my mind and have you polishing the tarnish off all that silver plate we found.”
* * *
Liam quickly fitted the new side mirror, and they took the road north and west out of town. It was good to have the windows down and breathe in the scents of the countryside: the cut hay, silage, and overflowing hedgerows. The weather was still warm, but not as scorchingly hot as it had been. The landscape was washed in a golden glow of summer sun, the beginnings of a drought tinging the grass, the breeze that had picked up whipping up a little dust. Liam made easy conversation as they went, commenting on the car or points of interest along the route. Xanthe found it a relief to be away from the shop, from the inexplicable occurrences in the garden, and from the pressures of the new life she and Flora were struggling to manage. The car purred along the largely empty roads, and with every mile she felt herself relax a little more.
“This is a treat. Thanks for agreeing to a run out, Xanthe.”
“You’re doing me a favor. I didn’t realize how much I needed some time out from the shop. We’ve only been there five minutes, but, well, it’s been pretty full on since we arrived. Lucky for me you’re not working today.”
“I keep the workshop closed on Saturdays. It means I can go to auctions and recover from any gigs I might have done.”
“We enjoyed the band last night,” she tol
d him, and meant it. “You were good.”
“Thanks. I hear you’re something of a singer yourself.”
“Good grief, word gets around quickly in these parts!”
“In a town this size everyone knows everyone else’s business. Especially if you’re local. Harley told me.”
“He’s certainly a man with a lot of local knowledge.” She hesitated and then added, “He’s been opening my eyes to the wonders of ley lines.”
“Ah, one of his favorite topics.”
“Apparently, according to him, we’ve got a ‘powerful point of convergence’ in our back garden.”
“Lucky you! Be careful, or Harley will have you opening it to the public and selling tickets. Can you imagine the weirdos that would queue up for that?”
“Especially, as it turns out there’s an old jailhouse built on the exact same spot,” she said, testing his reaction to the information.
“A blind house? Cool.”
“You know about them?”
He waved his hand vaguely. “There are quite a few around here. Good one in Labrook, and a famous one built into the bridge in Bradford. Oh, take a left at the next junction.”
The car shifted down a gear to tackle the steepness of the hill as they wound their way up toward a high point in the landscape. Liam directed Xanthe to a small car park among some ancient oak and ash trees. They locked up the cab and followed a narrow path out of the copse and onto the open farmland. Xanthe was enjoying the opportunity to lose herself a little in the exertion of walking. She kept wanting to stop and take in the view, but Liam insisted she not look until they reached the best vantage point. After another fifteen minutes walking, they crested the hill. The path continued on, but an offshoot led to a grassy area where people could pause to catch their breath, or to have a picnic, or simply to stand and stare at the spectacular scenery.
“There you go,” Liam said, grinning, as if what he was showing her was all down to him. “Best view in Wiltshire.”
The Little Shop of Found Things--A Novel Page 7
