Hiding From the Light

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘That’s because I know you wouldn’t look after them properly and I haven’t got the time!’ Their mother had appeared in the doorway behind them. ‘Hi! I’m Paula.’ A slim, elegant thirty-nine year old, Paula West had smartly highlighted short blonde hair and immaculate make up. She was wearing beautifully cut trousers and a powder-blue silk shirt which emphasised the colour of her eyes.

  ‘Daddy would look after them with us,’ Sophie pursued her train of thought relentlessly. ‘He said he would.’

  ‘He may have said so, but Daddy hasn’t got time.’ Paula accepted the gin and tonic her husband put in her hand and threw herself down into a chair. ‘Please, people, sit.’ She raised a glass to them. ‘TV now, kids. In the playroom, please.’ She shrugged at Emma. ‘I know I shouldn’t let them, but we get no time to ourselves, otherwise. You did get a video for them, Alex, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, dear, of course I did.’ Alex handed a glass to Piers. ‘The kids are fine. They are having a picnic in there.’ He winked at his guest.

  Mystified by this sign of complicity, Piers nodded wisely. ‘I gather you chose the short straw and gave up the City,’ he commented.

  Alex grimaced. ‘I don’t know if I really had that much choice at the time. But I don’t regret it now. You wouldn’t get me going back there for any money.’

  ‘Because you don’t have to commute; you don’t have to come home exhausted day after day and turn round before it’s light next morning to set off back again!’ Paula had drained her glass. She held it out to her husband and he took it without comment. He had not, Emma noticed, even touched his own drink. She glanced at Piers and their eyes met. The unmistakable message was, Oh God, it’s going to be one of those evenings when the hosts snipe at one another remorselessly and the guests wished they had never come.

  In fact, it was not that bad. The first gin had revived Paula and once they had moved to the table to eat smoked salmon followed by a crown roast with tiny buttery potatoes and autumn vegetables, she had mellowed enough to compliment her husband on his cooking.

  ‘Of course, the country is better for the kids. It’s bound to be.’ She had rejected the potatoes, but helped herself to more carrots and broccoli. ‘But we can’t help wondering if once they move on to the next school it would be better if they were in London.’

  ‘No.’ Alex’s voice, though quiet, was firm. ‘They are fine here; they have friends; they love it here; and yes, they could have pets here. Sophie could have a pony; they could sail. All sorts of things. And they have Lyndsey to take care of them –’ He broke off and his eyes flew to Emma’s face in mute appeal.

  She shrugged imperceptibly, not knowing what to say. It was fairly easy to guess his meaning. Don’t tell Paula just how much Lyndsey looks after them; and above all don’t tell her that the babysitter is a witch. Especially don’t tell her she is a witch who practises black magic in a churchyard at midnight.

  She realised suddenly that Piers and Paula were discussing the City. They had discovered friends in common. They had been to the same conferences. In fact, they had probably met before. Their heads drew closer together across the table. Alex reached for the bottle of wine and topped up Emma’s glass and then his own. ‘Lyn loves the children,’ he said softly. ‘And they love her.’

  ‘No problem.’ Emma took a sip. It was a good wine. ‘I caught her at a bad time.’ She paused. ‘Tell me, is Mike Sinclair a friend of yours?’

  Alex put his head to one side. ‘More of an acquaintance.’ He saw Piers turn to listen and hastened to explain. ‘He’s the rector down in Manningtree and Mistley. We’re in a different parish up here, of course. Not that we go, to be honest.’

  ‘We go at Christmas,’ Paula put in.

  ‘You’ve met him, have you?’ Alex asked innocently, turning back to Emma. ‘Mike, I mean.’

  Emma nodded, squinting into the candlelight. ‘I liked him. I told him I wouldn’t be one of his flock, but yesterday we met in the village and he bought me a coffee.’

  ‘Good-looking, is he?’ Piers challenged.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, he is.’

  ‘And not married, either,’ Paula added. ‘The ladies of the parish flutter as he walks about.’

  The two men guffawed. ‘He’s probably gay,’ Piers put in. ‘Clergymen usually are these days, aren’t they?’

  ‘No, they’re not!’ Emma was surprised to hear herself sound quite heated. ‘And he didn’t seem gay to me. Not at all.’

  ‘So, he obviously made an impression.’ It was Paula’s turn to laugh. ‘I don’t blame you. I’m on one of his children’s committees when I have time to go and he is a decent man. Very genuine, and no, not gay. But he has got this dreadful lay reader person who follows him everywhere. She never lets another woman near him.’ She chortled. ‘Sheepdog syndrome. Are you a churchgoer, Piers?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not my scene, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So you don’t believe in ghosts either, then?’

  He shook his head again. ‘Don’t tell me this house is haunted?’

  ‘No.’ Paula laughed. ‘But yours is. Liza’s. You must have heard about the ghost?’

  ‘The house isn’t mine, it’s Emma’s,’ Piers put in quietly. ‘I am just visiting.’

  ‘Oh.’ Paula frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you two were an item.’

  Emma glanced at Piers. ‘Not any more,’ she said softly.

  ‘Well, anyway. Emma won’t be so alone if she has a ghost, will she?’ Paula’s voice was over-bright.

  ‘Paulie, no. Not now.’ Alex frowned.

  ‘Why not? People love to hear they’re living in a haunted house.’ Paula stood up and began collecting plates.

  ‘Not necessarily, if they live there alone,’ Emma said quietly. She laughed and shook her head, firmly suppressing the memory of Flora’s warning only the day before. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so pathetic.’

  ‘It didn’t. It sounded heartfelt.’ Alex pushed back his chair. ‘Don’t worry. There is nothing scary in your house. I’ve always thought it had a lovely warm atmosphere.’

  ‘Considering the ghost was a witch, you mean,’ Paula put in, her voice a whispered tremolo. ‘But, as Alex says, a really nice witch.’

  ‘Do you know who she was?’ Emma asked. She had reached for the remains of her bread roll and was breaking it into tiny pieces.

  ‘Liza of course. Surely someone’s told you about her?’ Paula called over her shoulder. She had taken the plates into the kitchen and put them down on the counter. She reappeared and began collecting vegetable dishes. ‘She was burned at the stake on Manningtree Green.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Alex put his hand over Emma’s wrist for a second, staying her restless fingers amongst the crumbs.

  ‘I know.’ She nodded. ‘I have been doing my research. She would have been hanged at Chelmsford after a proper trial.’

  ‘Proper?’ Paula was indignant. ‘Weren’t they tortured?’

  Emma nodded. ‘They were. But once they appeared before the magistrates everything was done according to the law.’ She shrugged.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ Piers raised an eyebrow.

  Emma shook her head.

  ‘Let me take that roll away.’ Alex gently extricated it from her agitated fiddling. ‘As I said, that is a happy house and always has been. The ghosts, if there are any, are in Manningtree. They’ve been filming at the corner shop in Church Street. A TV documentary, I hear. They were talking about it in the deli. The girl who works in the shop says Mike Sinclair went in to exorcise the ghost and came out with his hair standing on end.’ He chuckled, distributing fresh plates. ‘I forgot to ask him about it. Now, that does sound exciting.’

  ‘And a load of rubbish if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Piers put in. ‘It’s wrong to wind people up about ghosts. It scares them.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think it scares me!’ Emma frowned at him.

  ‘It might. On your own up that lane in the da
rk. No one for miles. It would scare me.’

  ‘Well, not me. Not if it’s a nice ghost.’ Emma was indignant.

  ‘Here’s pudding.’ Paula had reappeared with a huge bowl. It was topped with cream and grated chocolate. ‘Trifle. My speciality. Alex does the first courses, I do the pudding.’ She produced a spoon. ‘Two extra plates, Alex, for the kids. We promised. Now,’ she beamed at Emma, ‘can I give you some? You must have given up dieting now you’re a country girl.’

  Emma glanced at her, not sure how to take the remark. Was Paula implying that she was fat? She smiled. ‘I’d love some, please.’ She studied Paula’s face through the glare of the candlelight. There was a brittleness of expression there she recognised all too well. Paula was under immense strain, tired, stressed and, she guessed, very unhappy. Poor Alex. She watched him carry two brimming bowls of trifle out to the children. In a few minutes he was back. ‘They’re happy.’

  ‘What are they watching?’ Emma reached for her spoon.

  ‘Babe. For the thousandth time.’ He slipped into his chair. ‘It’s nearly finished. Then it’s bedtime. I quite like it if they have a late night. It means we get a bit of peace in the morning. And don’t forget, the clocks go back tonight so we get a whole extra hour of bliss.’ He chuckled. ‘Precious, precious Sunday. If Mike Sinclair realised just how precious he’d stop being surprised that no one goes to church.’

  ‘I don’t think he is surprised,’ Emma said slowly. She was savouring the sweetness of the trifle. ‘When I told him I didn’t go, he didn’t blink an eye. It must be very disheartening, poor chap.’

  ‘Perhaps he should concentrate on his exorcism techniques and leave honest citizens alone.’ That was Piers.

  ‘You could get him to come and exorcise Liza’s.’ Paula helped herself to another spoonful of trifle. ‘Then you won’t be scared on dark winter nights.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, I won’t be scared.’ Emma frowned.

  ‘Of course you will. You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t,’ Piers put in. ‘Then who’ll be begging to come back to London?’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘I won’t, Piers,’ Emma said softly.

  ‘Ah.’ Alex looked from one to the other. ‘Do I sense a conflict here? Sorry. Dangerous ground. Shall we change the subject?’

  ‘I can’t think why you would want to come and live down here after London,’ Paula put in. ‘It seems crazy to me. And giving up a good career to grow herbs!’

  ‘Paula, leave it!’ There was a clear warning in Alex’s voice.

  ‘No! I’m entitled to give my view.’ Paula’s pale cheeks flushed angrily. ‘You know damn well I think we should move back to London. The kids would be happy there. They’d love it. Emma is a fool to give up all that. A complete fool.’

  ‘Thanks a lot!’ Emma was indignant.

  ‘Forgive us, Emma. It’s none of our business.’ Alex was profoundly embarrassed.

  ‘Nevertheless, you are in a position to make informed comment,’ Piers put in. ‘And Paula is right. If she works in London and commuting doesn’t do it for her, then perhaps you should move. No,’ he held up his hand as Emma drew breath to interrupt. ‘Similarly, Em effectively ended our relationship by moving down here. She knows I think she’s mad.’ He softened the remark with a smile, reaching out to cover her hand with his own.

  She snatched it away. ‘I don’t think Alex and Paula want to hear about our relationship or lack of it.’

  A silence followed, broken only by the ostentatious clatter of spoons on plates. Paula glanced at Alex and then at Emma and frowned, suddenly suspicious. No. Surely not. He wasn’t going to fall for Emma, was he? Standing up abruptly she disappeared into the kitchen to fetch coffee.

  Emma followed her, arms full of dirty dishes. ‘I’m sorry about that. Childish!’

  ‘Don’t be silly. The trouble is it’s rather shown up the cracks in our own united front,’ Paula said coldly. She put on the kettle. ‘I’m just going upstairs to the loo.’ She did not look pleased when Emma followed her – more out of curiosity than need.

  The upstairs of the house was as spacious as the ground floor. Five bedrooms with three bathrooms. Emma was shown into a small guest bathroom generously supplied with exotic soaps and lotions. Having dried her hands, she made her way towards the stairs past the master bedroom where Paula had disappeared. From behind the closed inner door of what must be their hosts’ bathroom she heard the sound of violent retching. For a moment she paused, wondering if she should offer help, then suddenly she understood. That was how Paula managed to combine the eating of huge meals and rich exotic trifles with a pencil-thin figure.

  When Paula rejoined the others in the drawing room around the open fire she was white and drawn, but otherwise outwardly cheerful as she passed round the cups. Emma had taken a seat on the long, grey-upholstered sofa and was watching Alex feed neatly sawn logs onto the fire. Oozing with resin, they spat furiously as they crackled into the flames.

  Glancing up at her hostess, Emma tried to make peace. ‘There is a lot about the City I miss, I must admit. The camaraderie. The social life. Even the work!’

  ‘Then why leave?’ Paula was standing in front of her proffering the sugar basin.

  Emma waved it away. ‘It’s as if there is something inside me, telling me to do it. A deeper, stronger part of me. Almost some kind of spiritual longing.’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t think I haven’t asked myself why – I’ve lost so much …’ As her voice trailed into silence her eyes strayed towards Piers, who was standing looking down at the fire, talking to Alex.

  Paula frowned. ‘It doesn’t sound like a very rational decision, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘It wasn’t.’ Emma shrugged. ‘That’s the terrible part. It wasn’t. But there is no going back.’

  38

  The same night

  With a sigh, Mike stood up and wandered across to stand in his favourite position by the window. While he had been trying to write his sermon it had grown dark outside. A mist lay across the lawn, swirling like damp gauze in the light from the window. He glanced at his watch and was appalled to find it was already well after seven.

  Shivering, he pulled the curtains across and turned his back. She was there again, inside his head, the woman who had haunted his dreams the night before; at first he had thought she might be Lyndsey Clark, but she didn’t meet the description Alex had given. In fact, she wasn’t a twentieth-century woman at all. She was shadowy, there at the edge of his vision, a woman whose hair was concealed by a white cap tied under the chin, who wore a long black dress with a white linen collar. But it wasn’t the old woman of his earlier vision. It was a young woman with bright frank hazel eyes and a determined chin, the woman whose face had for a moment overshadowed that of Emma Dickson in the coffee shop down in the town, a woman who could be Emma Dickson except that this was a woman who radiated hatred.

  Taking a deep breath, he went back to his desk and stared at the screensaver swirling silently in the corner. The phone was signalling eight missed messages and as he stood there looking at it, it rang again.

  ‘Mike? Are you there yet? I’ve tried to reach you a couple of times today. I do need to speak to you about the service tomorrow.’ He heard the irritation in Judith’s voice as he sat down at the desk. His hand had extended almost of its own free will to pick up the receiver. Then it had stopped. The phone fell silent and he sat motionless, staring at it.

  He had been like this all day. Shaky, nervous, alternately shivering and hot as though he were coming down with flu. And all day he had been aware of these faces hovering on the periphery of his consciousness. Women. Women in Puritan dress. Voices, echoing in his head.

  Putting his elbows on the desk, he clasped his hands and closed his eyes ‘Our Father, who art in Heaven.’ He stopped. Somewhere upstairs a door had banged. He looked up towards the ceiling. It had been misty when he looked out into the garden. Surely there was no wind?

>   When the phone rang again a moment later he picked it up without giving himself time to think.

  ‘Mike! At last! I’ve been trying to reach you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Judith. I’ve just got in.’ He hoped he would be forgiven the lie. Another lie. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s service. I said I’d play the organ.’

  ‘Of course. Charles is away.’ Mike dragged his mind back to the daily details of running the parish.

  ‘The hymns, Mike.’ There was a hint of impatience in her voice. ‘You said you’d tell me which ones in case I have to have a brief run through. I’m not that practised.’ She laughed.

  ‘And I’ve given you no time. Judith, I’m so sorry.’ He was scrabbling amongst the notes on his desk.

  ‘I thought I would go up to the church now and have a quick go, while there’s no one about to hear me. Perhaps you could have a think and meet me there in half an hour or so? I haven’t got a key.’

  There was another implied reprimand there. She had asked before for her own key. He should have seen that she had one by now.

  ‘I’ll be there.’ He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. There was no list. Not yet. Not until the sermon was written. Not until he had a theme. He sighed. Tomorrow was St Crispin’s Day. Was he going to write about the patron saint of shoemakers or should he go for Shakespeare and Henry V? Or both. Surely he could think up something stimulating with that kind of background.

  He hung up and glanced at his watch. Half an hour to think, make a few notes, choose the hymns and walk over to the church with his key.

  She was already waiting in the porch when he arrived. ‘Judith, I’m so sorry. You should have come on up to the rectory. I am all behind today.’ He produced the key from his pocket.

  The church was very cold as they switched on the lights. Bill Standing’s first job on Sunday mornings as autumn arrived was to come over and go round the back to the boiler house to make sure the heating was on. On the other days of the week it was as cold as a tomb in here.