My story about Tilly Penhalligan and Phoebe began with the Polperro cottage and developed further when I visited the famous witchcraft museum in Boscastle. Struck by the artefacts displayed there and then inspired further by stories of the Fighting Fairy Woman of Bodmin Town, told by a very talented ex teaching colleague of mine, I finally sat down and wrote this short story. Reading it several years on, even in the blazing Caribbean sunshine, I still get the shivers because I’m instantly transported back to that very strange cottage on Talland Hill, and watching the sea mists roll in to cut us off from the village below.
I really hope you enjoyed Hobb’s Cottage. Please feel free to email me and let me know your thoughts and your own ghostly experiences. I love to hear them and once the new blog and website are up and running I’d really like to pop some up.
You can write to me at [email protected] or visit my website www.ruthsaberton.co.uk or via my Facebook author page https://www.facebook.com/pages/Ruth-Saberton-Author/117666788262892?ref=bookmarks.
I also have an Amazon page http://www.amazon.co.uk/Ruth-Saberton/e/B003VO6PT2 where you can read all about what I’m up too and find out about my other books. If you enjoyed this story I’d really appreciate a short review on Amazon. Reviews are like gold dust for authors and they really do help.
Finally, if paranormal romance is a genre you enjoy, please check out my new novel, Dead Romantic, available for pre order on Amazon and released globally by Notting Hill Press on October 2nd 2014 http://amzn.to/1njG2JA. The opening chapter is right here to give you a taster. And if you buy and enjoy the book, please leave a review and get in touch – it is very much appreciated and makes all the difference!
Take care and happy reading!
x Ruth x
Dead Romantic
By
Ruth Saberton
Music Mad interview with Rafe and Alex Thorne 23rd December 2009
Thorne take Christmas number one
MM feared the days of unmanufactured music basking in the Christmas limelight were long gone. In these bleak times of mass production stranglehold it seemed unlikely that a genuine band would ever take the Christmas number 1 again. Thorne’s festive hit, One Christmas Kiss, has taken the music world by very welcome storm. The haunting lyrics and soul wrenching vocals have kicked saccharine pop right back to the eighties dustbin where it belongs. With Rafe Thorne widely regarded as one of the foremost songwriting talents on the British music scene and with One Christmas Kiss playing at parties the length and breadth of the UK and being down loaded every 9 seconds, what’s the secret of his success?
“Honesty,’ Rafe Thorne is quick to answer. “If you don’t write from the soul then your music doesn’t ring true. Sure there’s a formula but people aren’t stupid. They soon figure out music by numbers.”
With this Christmas number one Rafe has not only spilled his musical guts but his emotional ones too. His face clouds when pressed about the origins of the song. “Yes, it’s written from the heart. The song is about something that really happened.” He pauses, “It’s about somebody I knew was really special.”
So the Christmas kiss was real?
Rafe nods. “It was Christmas Eve and I was travelling home to London from a crappy gig and without Alex for once. I think some girl had taken pity on him and he got lucky!”
At this point Alex Thorne stubs out his cigarette and punches his brother on the arm. “There had to be some perks to playing the outskirts of Watford for forty quid! And anyway, she liked you best. You’re just too picky!”
The brothers banter. They finish each another’s sentences and clearly know one another inside out. Noel and Liam they are not.
Back to the song?
Alex grins. “Yeah, don’t stop now, bro. Tell them about how your eyes met across the snowy track and the angels sang. It’s pure Mills and fuckin’ Boon!”
Rafe laughs. “Mills and Boon just bought you an Aston! Anyhow, my train home was cancelled and I was stranded at this god forsaken branch line station miles from anywhere.”
Just like in your song?
“Yeah, just like that. This girl was waiting for her lift, this God damn amazing girl with the greenest eyes and sunset hair - the snowflakes were settling on her curls.” He shrugs and gone is the rasping anger found in his hits Dead Lines or Killed, replaced by regret. “We sat together on a bench and she was shaking with cold. Her mum was really poorly and she’d come home for Christmas to spend some time with her. She was so upset and I couldn’t help it, I put my arms around her.” He shrugs. “We were young and it was Christmas Eve. I expect you can guess the rest.”
We don’t need to guess; Thorne’s haunting lyrics speak for themselves. Rafe exhales slowly.
“Man, like an idiot I never even asked her name. Then her father arrived all distraught and my train pulled in. She’d scribbled her number down but it blew away in the snow storm. I haunted that station for months but I never saw her again but I knew, though. She was the one. The only one.”
And this is Rafe Thorne’s gift: he wraps raw emotion up in minor chords and lyrics that echo through the heart and soul. The opening bars of One Christmas Kiss are filled with the bitter sweetness of lost love, the magic of Christmas Eve and the pain of unfulfilled dreams. MM predicts that for many Christmases to come this song will be right up there with Wham and Slade.
With his brother lost in reminisces, it’s up to Alex to lighten the mood. “Yeah, the song’s about Rafe’s famous one that got away! Who knows, maybe she’ll read this and recognize herself? Then she’ll find him and they can live happily ever after!”
Rafe’s girlfriend, lads’ mag favourite Natasha Lacey, will no doubt have something to say about this! Still, with One Christmas Kiss outselling everything else in the charts and set to become a Christmas classic, Rafe Thorne’s living happily ever after seems very likely, with or without his mystery girl.
“But if I could,” Alex says quietly to his brother, “I’d move heaven and earth to find her for you.”
Chapter 1
November
“Is that a normal latte, Madam, or one of our a seasonal lattes?”
The teenager behind the counter pauses to enable me to make this challenging decision. He needn’t have bothered. Seasonal lattes in early November? What’s that about? I’ve enough problems dealing with Christmas in December, foisting it on me now is nothing short of cruelty.
“It comes with a mince pie,” the helpful teen adds in case this is enough to tip the balance.
I nearly walk out. Superman probably likes Kryptonite more than I like anything remotely festive. All I want is a quiet coffee while I wait for Susie to arrive. The last thing I need is a reminder that before long Dad will be on the phone wondering what I’m planning to do for the holiday, the silences between us filling with unspoken disappointments and memories. Are you coming home Cleo Rose? he’ll ask and, as usual, I’ll pretend I have to work or am planning to go away. He’ll know I’m just making excuses because I never go away, unless you count my annual Christmas guilt trip.
“Skinny latte,” I say firmly. “And absolutely no mince pies. I’m more than happy with a blueberry muffin, thanks.”
I shuffle past the till and along the counter, trying to ignore the strains of Last Christmas, and concentrating instead on the dismal day beyond the steamy window. The early afternoon sunshine has turned a sickly yellow and the sky is bruised with lemony clouds. Pedestrians huddling under umbrellas scuttle towards the tube and cars swish through puddles, their side lights scattering diamonds over the road. Across the road sodden tourists pour into the Museum of London, dripping all over the floor and more excited about being out of the rain than seeing the exhibits. They’ll be driving the security guards crazy by touching the statues with moist fingers and fogging up the display cases. The Ancient World Gallery will be even more crowded than usual, a press of faces peering through the glass at the mummies as the tide of visitors sweeps through the dimly lit roo
m, starfish hands leaving sticky kisses behind.
Settling onto a sofa, I decide I’m glad to be away from the museum for a while on this soggy Saturday. I’ve worked at the MOL as an Egyptologist for three years now and although I still get a thrill from seeing people enthralled by history I’m glad the sarcophagus of my pet project, Aamon I, is hidden safely away in the lab. There’ll be plenty of time for the hordes to see the boy pharaoh once I’ve finished my research, but until then Ammon and his secrets belong to me. I love trying to decipher the hieroglyphics and untangling stories that for millennia have lain buried under the desert sands; it’s the ultimate Sudoku.
Susie doesn’t get this at all. She thinks I should be socialising rather than spending every spare minute at work or reading up on the latest academic papers. Mum always understood though. From the moment she first told me how way back in 1920 my grandmother, Rose, had been one of the archaeologists who’d discovered the tomb of the boy pharaoh, Aamon I, I was hooked. Being named Cleopatra probably helped me too, as did all the family holidays to Egypt and Sudan so that Mum could visit digs. Anyway, I poured over her books, was glued to the History Channel rather than CBBC and spent hours mummifying my unlucky Barbies. It was worth working my socks off and being the school boffin to see how proud Mum was of me.
I stir my drink violently, sloshing coffee into the table. I’m not going to think about Mum right now. Not here in a coffee shop and in full view of everyone. And neither am I going to think about the empty space at the Christmas dinner table.
No. Way.
Where’s Susie when I need her to take my mind off things? I fish my iPhone out of my satchel. I’m going to call her.
“I’m so sorry!” Susie says breathlessly when she finally answers. “I’m on my way! I’m just running a bit late.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Neal Street. I’ve found the best shoe shop! They’ve got leopard print thigh boots and everything!”
“Never mind the boots, Susie. How long until you get here?”
Susie pauses, torn between trying on the boots and meeting me sometime this week. “Err, maybe half an hour? Size four please. Oh, yes, can I try the purple ones too?”
“Are you trying shoes on while I’m sitting here like a lemon, waiting for you?”
“I’m multitasking,” Susie says quickly. “You should approve, Cleo. You were only telling me yesterday to be more organised.”
“I meant you should keep your purse, Oyster Card and door keys in the same place, not buy multiple pairs of shoes! Susie Maxwell! What are you like?”
“A disaster,” she says cheerfully. “I just can’t be as anal as you, Cleo Rose Carpenter!”
“I’m not anal!” I protest.
“Babes, you write lists about what lists you need to write! I’d say that makes you pretty anal.”
“Rubbish! I’d say that makes me organised. And at least being on time means I’m warm and dry whereas you’re going to get soaked now traipsing from Covent Garden to Oxford Street.”
“But will you have leopard skin thigh boots?” she counters.
I start to laugh in spite of myself. “No, we can safely say I won’t have a pair of those!”
When she rings off, promising faithfully to be with me in half an hour, I’m still smiling. Susie drives me nuts but I can never be cross with her for long because she’s like a small, pink haired, sunbeam. We may be very different but there’s nothing like being misfits in a posh girls’ school to bond two opposites. We were the class weirdos: the skinny, speccy ginger girl and the short, plump blonde. It was bad enough being called Cleopatra without having a passion for all things ancient Egypt too but luckily for me Susie had a samurai sword sharp reply for any bitchy comments slung at us. Before long the other students learned to leave us alone rather than risking her scathing putdowns. I left the verbal battles to Susie and did her homework, which seemed to me more than a far exchange for being left in peace. Nearly twenty years on we’re still friends and when I returned to England sharing a London flat seemed like a good idea.
At least it did until I discovered just how messy she could be…
Deciding I may as well make good use of the time while I wait, I delve into my briefcase, fish out a folder and settle down to read through the first few thousand words of my notes on Aamon. Or at least I try to read but I’m being deafened by Christmas music.
When once I had an angel’s kiss
Never knew love could hurt like this
How depressing are the lyrics of this Christmas song they’re playing now? Add as many sleigh bells as you want, it’s still really miserable stuff. Come back George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley, all is forgiven. At least Pepsi and Shirley looked like they were having fun playing snowballs and wearing earmuffs.
On my own, out in the cold
No one to love, no one to hold
I put my hands over my ears. There’s something really haunting about these lyrics. The bittersweet words remind me of a chance meeting, one long ago Christmas Eve that had been the worst of my life.
I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me. I’d caught the last plane from Cairo in a desperate race against time. It had been truly awful. The single carriage that posed for a train had deposited me on an isolated rural railway platform before trundling away into the night, taking with it all light and life. For a moment I’d stood dazed, numb with exhaustion and the cold, before managing to gather my wits about me sufficiently to drag my case towards a bench. There I’d shivered and wept while the snow whirled down and distant church bells pealed, summoning the faithful to worship.
“May I join you?” The flurry of needle sharp wind and swirling snow had snatched my breath away. Or maybe that was just the sight of him, silhouetted against the night sky; a tall figure with a guitar slung across his back and violet eyes set above the sharpest cheekbones. It was as though he’d walked straight off the cover of one of the trashy romances that Susie devoured. I looked away, firstly because I couldn’t trust myself to meet his searching gaze and secondly because I never liked anyone to see me crying…
“Hey,” he said, sitting down beside me and brushing snowflakes from his leather jacket, “you look sad. Nobody should be sad at Christmas.”
I dabbed my eyes with the back of my gloved hand and tried to paste a smile onto my face but I could see that I was failing miserably. For a moment I teetered on the brink of pretending to be polite, being the usual Cleo Carpenter who just got on with everything and took all life’s blows in her stride, but there was something about the kindness in his face that pulled me back. It was late. I was jet lagged, half frozen and worried sick. In the most out of character way I found myself pouring out my heart and telling him everything; how Dad’s frantic phone call had sent me tearing across time zones in the desperate hope that I might make it back in time, how I knew in my heart that Mum wouldn’t last through Christmas, how I should never have gone so far away when I knew she was ill, how I couldn’t believe my father hadn’t called me back earlier. Before I even knew it I was sobbing in earnest and his arms were holding me close. It should have felt wrong, he was a total stranger after all, but it didn’t feel that way at all.
And I never even asked his name…
“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Susie charges though the coffee shop like a paratrooper and hurls herself next to me on the sofa. My daydream evaporates and for a split second I’m totally thrown to be back in the coffee shop rather than on the cold railway station.
“Aren’t these totally worth being late for?” Rummaging through her bags Susie plucks out a pair of platforms that even the Spice Girls in their hey day would have baulked at.
“Let me go and buy us some lunch,” I say hastily, knowing from experience that she’s about to unpack every single item. “Latte? Cheese and ham panini?
“Lovely, but a skinny latte, please! I’m on a diet.”
I smile. Susie lost all the weight she carried at school a long time ago but ol
d habits die hard. I leave her gloating over her shopping but when I return she’s peering at my notes, her brow corrugated with concentration.
“Why can’t you read Heat like everybody else? You’re such a brain box.”
“Stop talking and eat your lunch,” I order, plonking down my tray. “I’ve got to get back to work soon.”
“Work? But it’s Saturday! Your day off remember? We’re going to Oxford Street and then clubbing in Ealing. You promised!”
“Suze, I can’t afford a day off right now. There’s an exhibition coming up and the post of Assistant Directorship of the Egyptology Department in the offing. I’m flat out.”
“I don’t know how you can bear it in there with those mummies,” shudders Susie. “It’d creep me out, especially if I was on my own at night. I’d be pooing myself.”
Late at night has to be my favourite time at the museum. No visitors and no noise. Just my lab, my research and me. Perfect.
“What on earth would you be worried about?”
“Seeing a ghost, of course! The MOL must be crawling with them.”
Susie loves all things paranormal. Our flat’s crammed with crystals and psychic magazines. Her idea of heaven is to curl up in front of paranormal TV show Totally Spooked and watch celebrity medium Lilac Delaney trying to commune with the dead, although why any dead people would want to talk to a woman who wears more makeup than a drag queen and rolls her eyes like a dying horse is beyond me.
“Suze,” I say patiently, “there’s no such thing as ghosts. When you’re dead you’re dead.”
“So you say, but nobody’s actually proven that ghosts don’t exist, have they?”
“That’s a fair point,” I concede, “but since I spend most of my time in Museum of London which, according to you, is crawling with ghosts surely I’d have seen something by now? Maybe a mummy stumbling down the corridor like something out of Scooby Doo?”
Hobb's Cottage: A Short Story Page 3
