by Iris Gower
He stood. He was tall and handsome; his hair was unfashionably cut; his clothes, casual as they were, suited him. He seemed to be wearing a worn flying jacket and a scarf.
He smiled. ‘It’s all right. Just ask for Tom when you next want a ride.’ He didn’t wait, just added, ‘Be safe.’ His voice sounded caring, warm and somehow familiar, though where would I have met an American serviceman before?
I sighed and went inside my house. The gas lamps shimmered and popped; the first thing I must do, I thought, is to install electricity. I smiled as the warmth of my house closed around me. I was home and safe.
THREE
Beatrice was still away or I would have talked to her about my mystery attacker. She might have some answers for me. Did someone else want Aberglasney? It hit me then like a deluge of cold water: I’d lost my bag and the deeds were inside. What would be my rights now? Would I still be the owner of the mansion? There had to be a copy at the solicitor’s office, I realized. Reassured, I made some tea and sat in the only comfortable room in the house, my bedroom.
As I sat in front of the mirror tying up my hair, I heard strange sounds coming from the blue room. Putting on my dressing gown, I went to find out what it was.
I heard muffled gasps and small cries – the sounds of rape or murder? Trembling, I flung open the door. The room was empty. The window banged open and shut, and intermittently the branches of the just-blossoming cherry tree outside scratched the glass.
I gave a shaky laugh and closed the window. I was beginning to imagine things; I was being foolish, hysterical. I didn’t believe in ghosts, did I? I had read the papers in the library, but I’d lost my notes along with my bag and my precious documents when I fell into the ditch. Still, I remembered the account of the five maids being killed, and I shivered.
I went back to bed and closed my ears to any strange sounds I heard, telling myself it was only the wind in the branches.
The next day I walked back to the ditch where I’d fallen. It was a long walk, and I was hot and panting by the time I got there. It took a while to find the spot where I’d dived from the road, and miraculously my bag was there – stuck in the muddy bed of the ditch.
The papers inside were wet but intact, although the signatures had run. Still, my deeds were safe, and I clutched them to me as I made my way back home.
She was there, Beatrice, sitting in the blue room with the door open, her small hands holding a piece of delicate lace she seemed to be fashioning into a collar. ‘They won’t bother you now, dear,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m back. They always keep away when I’m here.’
I didn’t take much notice of what she said. My thoughts were too full of the things that had happened since I’d arrived, and anyway, I didn’t really know what she was talking about.
‘I went to the library in Swansea the other day,’ I said without preliminary. ‘I read some of the old newspapers.’
‘Not very a convincing story, was it?’
‘No.’ I knew she was talking about the evidence against her husband. ‘It was all circumstantial; not a shred of proof.’
‘Except for the bodies, dear. There were the bodies of the five young girls who died.’ She looked up at me briefly. ‘Go about your business, now; put your plans into action. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do to the old place.’
‘I’ll install electricity next.’ I spoke eagerly. ‘These gas lights are eerie and inefficient.’
‘I’d have the chimneys swept if I were you.’ Her voice was mild. ‘Clear the house of smells.’ Her eyes met mine briefly. ‘We don’t want you dying off with poisoning, do we?’
She had a point, in view of her suspicions about the paint, by which she probably meant fumes. Sweeping the chimneys should be a priority, but that small item would have to wait until vital changes had been made. I meant to install proper heating and not rely on messy coal. So in the end I just had the main chimney swept – for effect, more than anything – so that the hall, library and sitting room could be used.
I slept well that night: no sounds from the blue room, no branches tapping on the windowpanes. Probably, there was no wind; it was a calm moonlit night. In the early dawn I woke abruptly. There was no sound, and when I drew the curtains the dawn was shedding a rosy light on the untamed gardens.
Dimly, a figure of a man became visible. He was staring up at the house – at my window! – and I drew back quickly. Who was he? Why was he spying on me? I hid behind the curtain, but when I cautiously looked out again the overgrown lawn was empty.
Perhaps I was imagining things. The dawn light was still full of grey shadows, the trees only now beginning to be washed with colour.
I dressed and then went to see Beatrice. She was up already. It was as though she never moved from her chair and never put down her lacework. There was an antiquated bathroom nearby and a tiny staff kitchen, both of which I assume she used though I never ever saw her walking about.
‘I’m going to Swansea again,’ I said. ‘I want to look up some reference books, see what else I can find out about the murders.’
‘Not murders, dear,’ Beatrice said firmly, ‘just deaths by mysterious causes. Please look up the construction of the paint.’
It irritated me the way she went on about the paint. No one died a sudden death because of paint!
‘I will,’ I said, more to please her than anything.
As I left the grounds I saw one of the American officers smiling at me. I recognized him at once. ‘Tom, you’re being an officer today then, not a driver?’
He put his finger to his lips. ‘That’s hush hush. The driving, I mean.’ He smiled, and his teeth looked very white against his tanned skin. Tom, I decided, was a very handsome man. ‘How are the ghosts behaving?’ He winked.
‘How do you know about them?’
‘Everyone knows about the poor maids who died all on the same night, and everyone knows about the old lady who keeps them in order.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t believe in any of it myself. Don’t say you do?’
‘What was it that Shakespeare guy said about more things in heaven and earth than this world knows of?’
‘Not quite correctly quoted, but I get the gist.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve got a train to catch.’
‘Going to Swansea? I’ll give you a ride if you like.’
I hesitated and then shook my head. ‘Thank you, Tom, but I can’t afford to pay for a car. That’s why I’m walking to the station.’
‘Who’s talking about paying? I’m going that way so jump in. It’s gratis. Free. I’ll be glad of the company, for Swansea’s a good way off.’
Thankfully, I climbed into the big jeep. What a treat, being driven all the way to Swansea. The rough road to the station was bad enough to manoeuvre, especially with the danger of erratic car drivers on the lanes.
‘Were you looking up at the house in the early light, Tom?’ I asked as he did some trick with the clutch and the gears and set off through the lanes at an alarming speed.
‘Now, why would I want to do that?’
‘Any of your soldiers interested in ghosts then? Because some man was standing in the garden staring up at my window, just at dawn it was.’
‘I’ll check on that,’ he said, ‘but you know my soldiers are dark skinned Americans. Was this man dark skinned?’
I was confused for a moment. ‘No, definitely not. His face was illuminated by the dawn. He was fair, just like you.’ I heard the accusing note in my voice and instantly regretted it. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t implying—’ I stopped speaking, not knowing how to go on.
‘That I was a sort of peeping Tom?’ He grinned. ‘Excuse the levity.’
‘Tom, forget I said anything. It was too dark to see, really. I was probably imagining things.’
‘Like ghostly figures carrying lights along the landing in the middle of the night?’
‘You’ve seen them?’ I stared at him, and he took my hand. It
felt warm and strong and very nice.
‘There aren’t any ghosts if you don’t believe in them.’ He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it, and a shiver ran through me.
I drew my hand away. ‘Concentrate on your driving,’ I chided, but I was somehow touched by his gesture.
The sun came out, and I relaxed and secretly watched Tom – his foot deftly double-declutching the gears, his strong hands steering the car – and I felt happy and safe. I was quite sorry when at last the jeep stopped outside the library in Swansea.
I found myself longing to kiss Tom on the cheek, but familiarities that had been acceptable during the war were not acceptable now. I jumped out of the jeep, waved an airy hand and quickly walked up the steps into the solemn silence of the library.
FOUR
I was engrossed in my painting of the mansion when I felt a touch on my arm. I had a thrill of excitement and a smile grew on my face, as I thought it must be Tom. Distantly, I’d heard the sounds of shouted orders and the heavy roll of vehicles, and I’d wondered if the troops were moving out. The thought somehow disturbed me.
I turned slowly, my paintbrush arched in my hand . . . the garden around me was empty. I was frightened and shivery for a moment, but then I shrugged. I must have imagined it.
I gazed up at the sun, and a cloud seemed to obscure my vision. I felt my hand move into the paint and on to the canvas in swift, sure strokes. It was like a dream. I painted swiftly, my brush strokes sure, and yet my mind seemed blank, as if I were asleep. And then Tom was there, shaking me.
‘Riana, are you all right? Speak to me, honey, speak to me, it’s Tom. Are you dreaming? I wanted to tell you I’m going to stay here for a few weeks, although most of my troops are pulling out.’
I came awake and blinked at Tom, seeing the concern in his face. He touched my cheek briefly, and I remembered he’d called me ‘honey’, but then didn’t Americans call everyone honey?
‘You were in a dream,’ he said, drawing me to a garden bench warmed by the sun. I sat beside him, and he held my hand. I didn’t draw away. I felt strange, as though I had been asleep.
‘Is that what an artist does when they paint?’ His voice was gently teasing. ‘Have I disturbed some creative mood?’
‘No, not at all.’ I shook my head. I looked at him and he was so familiar somehow, so warm, so concerned. ‘I don’t know what came over me. It was as if I’d fallen asleep or something.’ I didn’t mention the touch on my arm; I must have been too occupied with my work.
‘Come to my hut and have a nice hot cup of coffee,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve got the pot on the stove.’ He smiled as I hesitated. ‘I promise not to ravish you.’
‘I’m not coming for coffee then,’ I said and laughed. Now, what on earth had possessed me to say such a thing? ‘I’m joking, of course,’ I added hastily.
‘Of course.’
I’d never been as far at the huts before. They stood on the perimeter of the gardens, the grass cut now by the soldiers. Great mounds of dug-over earth formed a sort of street between the buildings.
Tom took me into his office, which was in the same makeshift sort of transient building the other huts were.
‘No special luxury for the officers then?’ I made an effort to laugh. ‘Rough it like the privates – is that what Americans believe in?’
‘I’m afraid not. We were billeted in the house until it was claimed back. We’re not here for long now. As you can see, most of the men have moved out. There are only two left: Flight Officer Dave Smith and Airman Carl Jenkins. They’ll stay until I am ready to leave.’
‘And when will that be?’ I was aware my voice was shaking. I sat in one of the comfortable armchairs in the room and watched Tom pour coffee into enamel mugs.
‘I can’t be sure. The three of us will pack up any leftover documents, any stray personal belongings, that sort of thing. We’ll probably continue to fly on a few missions, but you could say our work here is almost done.’
I tried to think practically. ‘And when will the huts be taken away?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Don’t know that either, sorry. Why? Are they a nuisance to you?’
‘I want to begin on the gardens. Would you like to come and see the cloisters? I’ve made a start there myself.’
‘Drink your coffee first and talk to me. Tell me about yourself, Riana Evans, I want to know all about you.’
I felt a warm glow. ‘I’d like to know about you too, Tom,’ I said, trying not to sound wistful, ‘but soon you’ll be going away, remember?’
‘Go on,’ he said, ‘you begin.’
‘I’m an only child. My mum is very old and lives in a nursing home now.’ I was sad thinking of my mother; she didn’t even know me now. ‘My father died in the war. He was a doctor. A bomb hit the hospital where he was working and that was it.’ I felt tears blur my eyes.
‘I was an art student. I loved it all: the big room, the paints, the linseed oil, the seats we used, each with an easel attached – we students called them donkeys. I loved it all. The war changed everything for me, Tom, did you know that?’
‘Go on,’ he said gently. ‘What made you want Aberglasney?’
‘I don’t really know.’ I was thoughtful. ‘When I saw the house it felt like coming home. I sold up the family house; it’s never been the same without my mother. With the money from the sale of the house, my savings, and the little money I made from my paintings, I had enough to buy me Aberglasney.’
I wondered why I was telling him all my business. I looked up at him. ‘I will make a go of it, you know.’
‘I believe you.’ Tom touched my hand briefly. ‘I’ve seen your work, remember. You’re very good, very original. I’m not surprised folk want to buy from such a gifted artist.’
He moved about the small room. He was slim, lithe and very handsome in his officer’s uniform. He turned and looked at me, and I wanted him so badly I felt almost ill.
I got up abruptly. ‘Come and see the start I’ve made on the gardens,’ I said softly.
Tom followed me from the hut and across the stretch of overgrown gardens to where the cloisters stood out from the surrounding greenery.
‘See the arches?’ I said. ‘Aren’t they graceful? They were built in Jacobean times. Isn’t that incredible? And there’s a walkway above them from where you can see the rest of the grounds.’ I walked towards the cloisters and impotently tried to push aside a strong leafed bush. ‘These are too difficult for me to cut,’ I said, ‘but one day I’ll be able to afford a gardener, or at least a handyman, and then the arches will be cleared.’
Tom smiled and took my hand. ‘I’m quite handy.’ He looked down into my eyes; he was very tall.
‘I couldn’t impose.’ He was kissing my hand again. I resisted the urge to rest my hand on his cheek. I wished he would call me honey again because I loved the way he said it, soft and warm and golden like honey itself.
The next morning I heard a noise in the garden, and when I went out I saw that Tom was there with the men left behind from the exodus and they were cutting a swathe through the bushes covering the cloisters.
‘Gosh, you’ve been busy.’ I knew I sounded full of admiration, and it was genuine.
‘Surprising what a good team of men can do in a few hours.’ He winked at me, and I felt a warm silly glow as I watched his strong, bare arms wield the saw.
‘You left your painting out all night,’ he remarked. ‘Lucky it didn’t rain, though I think the morning dew has affected the oils a little bit.’
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the not-too-ladylike expletive I’d been about to give voice to. ‘I’d best go and see.’
I hurried through the grass to where I’d left my easel, and at first the painting looked jumbled. In among the windows I could see figures, young girls in mob caps and ribbon-trimmed linen gowns. Behind them was an older figure wearing a blouse with overblown sleeves, such as Beatrice wore. Carefully, I counted the figures: five girls and an older woman.
Ghosts?
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said to myself out loud. I sat down on a tree stump and closed my eyes, but when I opened them the painting was just the same: the figures were still there. I remembered then how vague I’d been for a time when I was painting. It was almost as though I’d drifted off to sleep or gone into a trance. I must have been daydreaming, drawing unconsciously, I decided.
The sun was hot above my head. I looked up at the windows of my house, my beloved mansion. The windows were blank. No one was there, no shadows, no strange lights.
I felt a touch on my arm and was almost afraid to turn round, but this time Tom was bending over me. ‘Daydreaming again?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.’ I smiled. ‘Daydreaming.’
FIVE
I sold my painting, including ghosts, to a London gallery, and as I walked out into the war-torn streets of the big city I felt a glow of achievement. This was the first time I’d had a painting taken by anyone other than a provincial gallery.
The owner, Mr Readings, had a buyer who liked old mansions and also liked the idea of hauntings, and the painting was just what he was looking for.
It was Aberglasney, it was bringing me luck. No, it was bringing out my real creativity, I told myself sensibly. Everyone made their own luck. As for the ghosts, they existed only in my imagination.
As I was in London, I took the opportunity to go to the library and look through the old newspapers. The mystery had made the London papers, and I found several articles on Aberglasney, on the deaths of the five maids who slept in the blue room. Most stories took the line that the girls were murdered; only one cast doubt on the story, citing the evidence as ‘circumstantial’, lacking in substance, and without a shred of proof to verify the police findings. It made no difference in the end. Beatrice’s husband had been blamed for the deaths and had killed himself before he could be charged – all on the evidence of Mrs Ward.
I wanted to know more about this Mrs Ward – upholder of the truth, a paragon of virtue – was anyone that holy and good? I knew there would be very little about her in London, though. My search would have to be carried out in the little village where my house was built. Eventually, I grew tired of the big city and caught a train home.
