Heaven's On Hold

by Heaven's on Hold (retail) (epub)

  The military biography was the newest of the books, a Christmas present from a son: ‘Dear Dad, Have a good one, love Roger’ with the date beneath. The price had not been snipped off the inside front cover – £19.99.

  Aware that he’d been saving the best – or at least the most interesting – till last, he picked up Sheltered by Hills and began reading. He found himself gripped: the pages, and with them the minutes, flew by. Not that there was anything exceptional about it. The writing was solid and competent, with occasional forays into pedestrian humour. The research – so far as David could tell – was adequate but well-larded with opinion. Many of the photographs seemed to be taken from postcards: a small printed legend was occasionally visible where they had been insufficiently cropped. The fascination, he decided, was in viewing a place that one knew through the lens of another’s perspective.

  Newton Bury, it seemed, was mentioned in the Domesday Book under the name of Nevitt’s Burye and interestingly had had about the same population then as now. The main difference in the aspect of the village in those days was its position. Several centuries ago, according to D. Cartwright’s sources, the buildings were strung out along the river valley, clinging to its banks rather than turning their backs on it. ‘The ancient manor house,’ she wrote, ‘was located where the telephone exchange is now, and the walker sufficiently intrepid to hack their way through the brambles at the back of the exchange will be rewarded by a clear view of the submerged remains, now no more than a tantalising pattern of ridges and mounds beneath the grass …’ David decided to be that intrepid walker in the not too distant future: with autumn approaching the brambles would be a less daunting obstacle. The present arrangement of the village had apparently been arrived at over hundreds of years, dictated by transport, changes in farming methods, and the lessening importance of being near the water supply. ‘The church of All Saints,’ wrote Cartwright, ‘is the oldest building in Newton Bury, with the oldest section of the church being the north wall and door which date from the eleventh century. But its origins go back even further, and it is generally thought that a place of Christian worship has stood on this site since St Augustine walked our green and pleasant land …’ This provoked something of a ‘yeah, yeah’ response in David. He was beginning to form a picture of the author as an enthusiastic but an imaginative woman in sensible shoes, eager to imbue her little book of local history with the Christian message. This was not a message towards which he felt any antipathy, rather the reverse – in animated discussions with Annet he invariably found himself the champion of organised religion – but D. Cartwright’s writing had a pedagogic flavour which he found irritating.

  However, about halfway through the book, just after the section of black and white plates featuring Bay Court among others, she embarked excitably on a quite different tack.

  ‘For a small village Newton Bury boasts more than its fair share of old and interesting buildings, to many of which curious stories attach. It is not my job to comment on their authenticity, and I shall not do so, but it would be a shame in the context of this book if the rich oral tradition which brought us these stories were to be ignored in the interests of strict factual accuracy.’ In other words, thought David, time for a little slumming.

  The pub, apparently had been one of eight licensed premises in the village, and although the most enduring had not been the most notorious. That distinction was reserved for the long-defunct Moon and Stars, which had occupied the building now known as Green Lane cottages. Legend (and D. Cartwright) had it that a villainous multiple murderer, an eighteenth-century serial killer named Abel Flack, whose victims were young girls, had been a regular drinker there and been protected for many years by the landlord and regulars who would hide him in the bread oven. This oven, David read, had been where the attractive conservatory of 3 Green Lane Cottages now stood, but the present owners had not reported any strange smells or sinister sounds as they sipped drinks on a summer’s evening! Cartwright had a firm belief in the power of the exclamation mark.

  There was also, naturally, the church, with its plague corner ‘where the compost tip now stands’, and its quota of mad, bad incumbents including one Micah Dawson who was rumoured to have bled the poor of the parish dry and used confirmation candidates for his own pleasure. Stoneyhaye got a mention in connection with a society hostess, ‘whose hospitality had extended well beyond what was dictated by politeness and friendship!’ and on account of a phantom huntsman said to gallop with his red-eyed hounds across the deer park when danger threatened.

  The reference to Bay Court was so brief, a mere sentence or two in parenthesis, that he almost missed it. But there it was: ‘… the attractive Edwardian villa of Bay Court, built by the publisher John Latham in 1905 is also said to have a ghost, of a purely benign kind, but anecdotal evidence suggests this may be the sort of paranormal phenomenon generally seen after closing time!’

  His heart pounding, David turned back to the photograph. It was quite old – the trees, including the eponymous bay tree which Annet so disliked, and the laurel hedges were less mature, the driveway wider, and there was no gate, only a couple of rather jolly pillars topped with balls. The paintwork on the window frames seemed to be of a different colour, not the fresh white that they were now.

  Well, he thought, he and the benign ghost had gazed into one another’s eyes, and it had only been two in the afternoon.

  ‘Boss!’ called Lara. ‘TV’s off – it’s quality time!’

  She explained to him that henceforth there would be a pattern to the day. There was no reason why they as parents should stick to it, but it might prove a useful framework.

  ‘Afternoon tea, playtime, bath, supper, bed!’ she declared. ‘ I‘ve never stuck to a routine in my whole life, but for babies? Every time.’

  ‘I’ll defer to your superior judgement on that,’ he said, and she smiled.

  ‘You’re not a lawyer are you?’

  ‘No, I’m a property agent.’

  ‘It’s the way you talk – the perfect English gent.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it.’

  Lara chuckled. ‘There you go again!’

  They attempted playtime together in the drawing room. Freya lay on her plaid rug with Lara sitting on the ground next to her and David perched slightly awkwardly on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘She needs something to look at,’ said Lara ‘other than us two, gorgeous though we are. Do you have one of those activity frames?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. If we have it’ll be upstairs. I suppose we thought she was a bit young for toys.’

  ‘And you were dead right. Don’t want to get into all that stinking commercialism too early. But you can get these dinky little A-frames that you can stand over them? They can, like, focus on different things, and try to reach out and grasp the handles?’ She must have seen his baffled look. ‘ Shall I get one? They only cost about a fiver.’

  ‘Do, it sounds a good idea.’

  He was fascinated by how many different strategies she had for playing with Freya, from simply holding her hands, to lying on the floor beside her. And singing – she appeared to have an inexhaustible supply of nonsense songs with lines like ‘Bodger, bodger, the old codger, what a lodger, my oh my!’ When he asked her about these she said she’d learned them from her granddad who’d been a first generation immigrant from Bethnal Green.

  At around five-thirty, when she’d gone upstairs to bath Freya, the phone rang, and it was Annet.

  ‘Sorry darl, I’m going to be late, tonight of all nights, I am just so pissed off about it – how’s Lara?’

  ‘She’s great. Getting on with it, as you said she would. I like her. Freya likes her – I felt a bit displaced when she first arrived, but we’re shaking down a treat.’

  ‘I’m so glad.’

  ‘She gave her rosehip syrup, was that all right?’

  ‘Did Freya like it?’

  ‘I don’t know that she didn’t.’

  ‘Then it’
s OK. Is there any chance of a word with her?’

  ‘I should think so. Hang on.’

  He went upstairs and took over, while Lara went down to talk to Annet. By the time she returned he’d finished, and was buttoning Freya into her sleepsuit.

  ‘Blimey O’Riley, you’re a dab hand!’

  ‘So I should hope.’

  ‘Most of the fathers I’ve dealt with are half your age and only half as nifty. If you don’t mind my saying,’ she added quite unapologetically.

  ‘Not at all. The older the fiddle the better the tune.’

  She cackled with laughter. ‘ OK. Give us it here.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘don’t worry. It’s been a long day and we’re nearly at the end of it. You knock off and I’ll put her to bed. Annet’s going to be late as she probably told you.’

  ‘Sure? If you say so.’

  He was pleased that she didn’t demur, another sign of her straightforwardness – she wished to be taken at face value, and would do the same with him.

  Freya went down quietly – he took it as another good sign – and he poured himself a beer and took it, and D. Cartwright, into the drawing room. Lara had folded the plaid rug and laid it over the arm of the sofa as if to say Freya lived here too.

  He was almost at the end of the book when he heard footsteps in the drive, followed by the clap of the letter box. Going into the hall he found the parish magazine, Outlook, lying on the mat. He opened the door and saw Maurice on his way to the gate.

  ‘Maurice!’

  The rector turned and took a few steps back. ‘Sorry – did I disturb you? My lady what delivers is off sick.’

  ‘Fancy a swift one?’

  ‘You twisted my arm.’

  Maurice accepted a beer and David poured himself another.

  ‘Where’s Annet?’ asked Maurice when they were both seated comfortably. ‘ Not still at work?’

  ‘ ’Fraid so, she rang to say she’d be late.’

  ‘She works hard, your wife.’

  ‘Yes – but then it’s what she enjoys. Maurice—’ he hesitated, picked up the book, put it down again. ‘This is going to sound pretty ridiculous.’

  ‘My dear chap, I shouldn’t think it’ll even register on the scale where I’m concerned – remember my line of business.’

  ‘For that very reason.’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  David laid his hand on the book. ‘I picked this up in a charity shop in town. There are two strange things about it.’

  ‘And the first?’

  ‘The first is that this and some other books I bought, all belonged to Robert Townsend – I gather his wife took them in herself a few days ago.’

  ‘Yes, that is a coincidence,’ agreed Maurice blandly. David waited, but it was obvious that was all he was going to get, so he went on:

  ‘The second is that it mentions this house – it’s a work of local history you understand – and says there’s some sort of ghost story connected with it. It isn’t in the least specific, and the author’s fairly dismissive of the whole thing, but purely out of scientific interest I wondered if you’d ever heard anything …?’

  ‘I can’t say I have. I’m trying to think, but I don’t remember anything, even of the public bar kind. Why – cold spots? Crying in the night – sorry, bad joke … Faces at the window?’

  ‘I did see something like that,’ said David eagerly. ‘Or thought I did. A few days ago, before I got this book. Which is another reason I’d value your opinion.’

  ‘Interesting.’ There was a pause. Maurice clasped his hands around his glass. ‘Fair enough, tell you what I think.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’d never dismiss anything out of hand, with the proviso that I’m a Christian, so I believe in redemption. That doesn’t sit well with the notion of wretched souls in limbo wandering around making a nuisance of themselves putting heaven, as it were, on hold. But if they’re there, then I have every sympathy. And I believe some people see them.’

  ‘A perfectly sensible and cautious reply.’

  ‘What else did you expect?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘One more thing, though, since you ask.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In my view,’ said Maurice, giving him a steady look. ‘It’s not places that are haunted. It’s people.’

  David waited up for Annet, but she wanted only to go upstairs to bed. By the time he’d locked up and turned the lights out she was asleep. When Freya woke at one-thirty he didn’t like to disturb his wife, so went downstairs and gave the baby her bottle in the drawing room in front of the red-veined rubble of the fire. A slight wind had got up, and the sound of it fumbling around the outside of the house made the room seem cosy.

  When Freya had finished he walked her about for a few minutes, humming softly. To the south of the house the wind was so strong that the curtains were moving, and a weaselly draught ran round his ankles, lifting the fringe on the Turkish rug. His mind running on what Maurice Martin had said he parted the curtains for a moment, wondering if he were not alone in looking out at the wind-maddened garden.

  He did the same at the window at the front of the house and was not surprised to see, in the tossing lamplight opposite, a slight figure in a hooded coat, waiting patiently.

  Closing the curtains, he went back upstairs and laid the dozing Freya in her cot. When he looked out into the street again, Gina was still there. She was the last thing he thought of before falling asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Annet delayed her departure next morning in order to see Lara. When, over their coffee at the kitchen table, David showed her Sheltered by Hills she seemed impressed, peering closely at the photograph, and reading the brief entry on Bay Court with serious attention.

  ‘Well I never … So you were right.’

  ‘I don’t know about right. But at the very least it’s an interesting coincidence.’

  She looked at him, one eyebrow lifted. ‘Any more paranormal experiences since that one?’

  ‘No.’ He decided against mentioning any vaguer and more general feelings on the subject. ‘No, that was it.’

  She handed the book back. ‘What about little Miss King?’

  His scalp crept for a second – what connections had been made in her mind between her last question and this one?

  ‘Still haunting you?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he lied. What point would there be in telling her? ‘But I’ve got something else to show you.’

  She evinced a kind of comical horror over the photographs. ‘God, look at me!’ she cried, ‘I was the size of a house!’

  ‘You looked incredibly glamorous, though.’

  She put on a Mae West voice. ‘You’re saying I don’t now?’

  ‘You know I’m not.’

  ‘Hm.’ She laid the picture of them in the restaurant, and the one of them with Freya in hospital, side by side on the table.

  ‘Before and after,’ she said. ‘I’ll put them in a frame.’

  Lara turned up and reopened discussions on rosehip syrup and related matters, and Karen arrived half an hour later. Heavily outnumbered, David retreated to the study, telling himself that in default of some major crisis he would return to the office tomorrow, a day early.

  Annet stuck her head round the door at nine-fifteen.

  ‘I’m off.’

  He held out his arm to her and she stooped to receive his kiss. ‘What will you do with yourself all day?’

  ‘I was just wondering the same thing. Treat it as a holiday I should think, but I might go in tomorrow all being well. On the understanding Lara can call if she needs to.’

  At this Annet heeled the door to behind her and lowered her voice. I’d stick around this morning if I were you, darl – you may have the clash of the Titans on your hands out there.’

  ‘Don’t tell me they’ve taken against each other?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. Quite. But they’re two strong personalities and
neither of them are what you’d call team players.’ She grinned. ‘Good luck!’

  Fortunately for him the phone rang several times over the next couple of hours so his attention was distracted from listening out for ructions elsewhere in the house.

  First was Tim, calling from the office.

  ‘Got to be brief,’ he said. ‘Good to see you the other day.’

  ‘For me as well. I’ve dropped you a note.’

  ‘No need for that – look I can’t talk, just wanted to say – my little outburst. It never happened, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What outburst?’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’

  In view of this exchange David regretted mentioning the situation to Annet. But surely Tim would take for granted that he’d tell his wife … He wondered whether this implied a retraction of Tim’s remarks the other day, or merely regret over a perceived indiscretion. He hoped it was the former.

  Next was Jackie, businesslike as ever. Another reason for getting back into the office was the unsettling notion that his PA might otherwise assume charge completely and render him redundant.

  ‘Did you get a chance to look at those specifications I gave you?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ he confessed.

  ‘Mr Border wanted you to know that a nice new property’s come up in your village. Alasdair’s going out to do the spec, but Mr Border thought you might know it.’

  ‘Good thinking. Do you have the details?’

  ‘I do, have you got a pencil? It’s called Orchard Mead …’ she paused for him to take it down. ‘And it’s in Orchard End, so that’s easy. It’s Grade Two listed so it might be the sort of thing Chris Harper’s looking for. The owner’s name is Mrs Townsend.’