by Ali McNamara
‘I feel like I’m interrupting,’ Tom says as we all sit in a line on the bench. ‘The two of you looked deep in conversation when I came outside.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘You’re not interrupting at all. We were just chatting, weren’t we, Benji?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘How’s the spring cleaning going upstairs?’ Tom asks. ‘Joey told me you’d decided to have a go at clearing those unused rooms against Arthur’s advice.’
‘Gossip travels fast around here! Yes, I am, and it’s going very well right now, thank you.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Tom takes a large bite of his sandwich.
‘Talking of gossip, I don’t suppose you’ve found any up there?’ Benji asks. ‘It would save me a job if you did.’
‘Nope, nothing as yet, but I have decided to hold a car boot sale.’
Benji snorts with laughter, as Tom hurriedly swallows his mouthful of sandwich, before asking, ‘Where? Here?’
‘Yes, here; what’s wrong with that? There’s loads of old junk up there. It’s stuff that we really don’t need to keep, but someone else might like. I thought it would be a good way of raising some extra cash for the renovations.’
The money that the last Earl left me was diminishing fast, and I was starting to worry that I would run out before we got everything up and running.
‘Your idea is admirable,’ Benji says, ‘but a car boot sale? There’s not many cars around here – a horse and carriage sale maybe?’
‘Okay, a yard sale then. No, make that a courtyard sale. We can set up some tables right here, and invite people to come and sell their stuff alongside our old tat. It might be fun. Our first proper event.’
‘There’re some trestle tables in one of the sheds – I saw them the other day when I was looking for some tools,’ Tom suggests helpfully. ‘They’d be perfect.’
‘Great.’
‘It’s not a bad idea, actually,’ Benji admits. ‘Now you’ve omitted the car boot part.’
‘Glad to hear you approve. I’ll talk to Arthur later about some possible dates.’
‘Be careful what you select to throw out, though, won’t you?’ Benji warns. ‘Remember one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’
‘And one woman’s rubbish is another tile on the floor of our tea room!’ I remind him. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. If there’s anything worth discovering up in those rooms, then I’m going to find it!’
Nineteen
After lunch I return to my sorting. The afternoon is much like the morning – three piles, and this time I remember the bin bags, so one of the piles quickly becomes a mound of black shiny plastic.
I’m just thinking it might be time to call it a day, so I’ve time to smarten myself up a little before collecting Charlie from school, when I discover an old tea chest. It had been hidden in the corner of the room behind what I’d thought was an old roll of carpet, but in fact turned out to be a very large Persian-style rug.
I’m about to leave it until I come back tomorrow, when I notice that the box seems to be filled with books. Nothing new there, I’ve already found enough old books to start a second library downstairs, but these books seem different: from the outside they look like leather-bound notebooks. I lift one from the box, expecting it to be filled with more tiny print – my ancestors’ eyesight must have been a lot better than mine is, to be able to read all the fine print I’ve seen today. Perhaps they’d all worn glasses?
But as I open the cover of this book, immediately I see it’s different.
The writing inside is still tiny, but instead of coming from a printing press the words have been written with a fountain pen.
‘It’s a diary!’ I say as I notice the first entry has a date. ‘Oooh, I wonder who wrote it—’
Suddenly there’s a crash from the next room. I look up, wondering if one of the piles I’d made this morning has toppled over.
I put the diary down and hurry back next door, but it appears nothing has moved. That’s very odd, I think, looking around. What made the noise?
I go back to the room I’ve just come from and pick up the diary, but just as I open the cover to begin to read I hear the noise again – it’s like someone is banging something together.
I rush back next door – but again nothing. I look around the corridor outside, pausing for a moment in case I hear the noise again. But all is silent.
Not this again, I think. First it was the stables, then the bedroom. Now here.
‘Hello,’ I call a little hesitantly. ‘If anyone is there you might as well show yourself.’
I brace myself. I’m not quite sure what for – it’s hardly likely that a bunch of ghosts will suddenly appear through the walls and waft their way over my head now, is it?
As I suspected (and secretly hoped) nothing happens.
‘Right, well, if you’re not going to show yourself then I’m going to collect my son from school,’ I say to the empty corridor, suddenly sounding a lot braver than I had a few moments ago.
I walk confidently back into the room I’ve just been clearing to collect the diary for me to read later. But it’s not where I left it, balanced on the edge of the packing case.
‘What the . . . ?’ I say, looking around me. I was sure I’d dumped it here before I’d hurried out of the room. Where had it gone?
I search the box again in case it has fallen back inside. But it’s not there. All the other books, which also appear to be handwritten journals, still remain, but where had that particular diary disappeared to?
‘This is madness!’ I mutter. ‘A book can’t just move on its own.’
But that’s exactly what seems to have happened.
I glance at my watch. ‘Right, you win,’ I say to the room. ‘I have to go. But I’ll be back,’ I warn it. ‘And I will find that diary. This is my castle, and I say what goes on here, do you understand?’ I waggle my finger in a menacing way, and then I look at my hand in embarrassment. What am I doing threatening an empty room? All this sorting of old junk is driving me insane. I need to find some real people to talk to and fast!
‘Charlie?’ I ask as we walk back from the school. ‘Have you seen much of Ruby lately?’
Charlie looks at me suspiciously, as though I’m asking him a trick question. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in Ruby?’
I shrug. I feel silly even asking my son this. Even more silly than I’d felt after leaving the rooms upstairs and realising I’d been talking to an empty room. ‘It’s just I’ve heard some odd noises around the castle lately.’
‘That might be Bill,’ Charlie says matter-of-factly. ‘He’s using some new power tools in the stables right now.’
‘No, it’s not Bill. These noises are . . . well, they’re not explainable.’
Charlie looks up at me. ‘It might be the other ghosts.’
I swallow. This is so difficult for me. ‘You mentioned some other ghosts before. Do you know how many there are?’
‘No, Ruby never said. All I know is they’re pretty protective of the castle. They don’t really like change.’
‘Oh dear; well, they won’t like me, then. There’s been a lot of change since we arrived.’ Charlie and I walk through the main gates – unlocked today because we’re open to the public – and then along the bridge towards the castle.
‘Yeah . . . Ruby did mention something about that.’
‘She’s talked about me?’ I ask, partly horrified a ghost might be talking about me, but probably more so that I’m actually having this conversation with my son. ‘What did she say?’
Charlie pulls a face. ‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’
‘Charlie Harris, I am your mother – if someone is speaking badly of me I very much think you should tell me.’
‘It’s not that they’re saying bad things about you . . . ’ Charlie’s obviously still torn. ‘It’s more like you’re unsettling them.’
‘How so? Everything I’m doing here is to improve this castle and ma
ke it more profitable in the long run. I would have thought they’d have been happy I’m trying to save their home.’
Charlie shrugs. ‘Like I said, they don’t like change, that’s all. I guess they’ve lived here a long time – a lot longer than we have.’
I open my mouth to speak, and then I close it again. Something Charlie said has struck a chord. I’d been so busy thinking about the future of the castle, I hadn’t ever stopped to think about its past all that much. No wonder Arthur was resistant to all my changes; this had been his home for a long time too.
‘I understand,’ I say quietly. ‘I guess I should be more considerate of the castle’s past. But . . . ’ I hesitate as we walk under the portcullis and into the courtyard. ‘If your . . . friend could pass on a message for me . . . to the others?’
Charlie nods.
‘Tell them . . . tell them I only mean good in anything I do. I only want what’s best for Chesterford Castle; it’s my home now as well as theirs and I want it to survive and prosper well into the future.’ I look at Charlie. ‘Will you do that for me? Will you tell this Ruby what I just said?’
‘I don’t need to,’ Charlie says. ‘You just did.’
‘What do you mean?’
Charlie looks towards one of the doors that leads off the courtyard into the part of the castle that houses the Great Hall.
‘Look,’ he says, pointing.
‘Look at what?’ I say, turning in that direction.
‘Can’t you see her?’
‘Who?’
‘Ruby. She was here with us when we came into the castle grounds. She heard everything you just said.’ He holds up his hand and waves. ‘She’s waving at you, and smiling,’ he says, smiling back. ‘I think you’ve made her happy.’
I feel my hand reach up and give a tiny wave. ‘But I can’t see anything,’ I whisper to Charlie.
‘You will do,’ Charlie says, ‘once your belief becomes stronger, Mum. You will do.’
Twenty
The next day I go back up upstairs to finish sorting the rooms.
I’m still not one hundred per cent convinced that everything Charlie was saying is true – I don’t think he was lying, but I’m still leaning towards Tom’s explanation that it might just be his imagination creating all this.
But a ten-year-old’s overactive mind doesn’t explain the things I’ve seen and heard myself since I’ve been at the castle. Perhaps my imagination has been working overtime too? I mean, why wouldn’t it? We’ve gone from living in a modern high-rise flat that had been built in the early eighties to an ancient castle that had been built hundreds of years ago. It’s understandable our brains might need a little time to adjust to the more unusual aspects of living here. But since my conversation yesterday with Charlie, I have to admit I do feel much more confident about the situation, and strangely not so afraid of things I don’t understand.
But as I enter the room to recommence my clearing, I’m amazed at what I find waiting for me on the corner of the packing case where I’d sworn I’d left it yesterday: the diary.
‘How did you get here again?’ I ask, lifting it up and looking around as if I expected to see some magical fairies flitting away after doing their good deed.
I tuck the diary safely into the top pocket of the dungarees I’ve chosen to wear today. ‘You’re not going anywhere this time,’ I say, tapping the pocket. ‘I’ll look at you later.’
But after I’ve sorted a few carrier bags and moved a few boxes around, the pull of the diary is too much. So I sit on the edge of an old toilet (goodness knows how that got up here), remove the book from my pocket, and open the cover.
It only takes me a few pages (and a bit of skipping forward) to work out whose diary this is: it belonged to Clara, the Countess from the painting downstairs.
I know this because each entry is dated in the year 1910. Most of the entries talk about the daily running of the castle, interspersed with anecdotes about dress fittings and parties. Then in the later entries the light tone becomes much darker, when Clara begins to talk about her money worries after the death of her husband, and finally her debt.
‘Gosh, this must have all happened so fast for you,’ I say to the diary. ‘One minute you’re living this comfortable carefree life of parties and social climbing, and the next you seem to have all the cares of the world on your shoulders.’
A bit like you did, I think, suddenly reflecting on my own struggles. You were happy and settled, and then – boom – one day it all changed.
But my husband didn’t die – he left me. And you didn’t have a child to look after, Clara – you had a castle instead.
But still, the similarities in our two situations are easy to see.
‘You okay?’
I jump at the voice, but it’s just Benji.
‘You looked deep in thought there.’ Benji comes through the door. ‘What are you reading?’
‘It’s Clara’s diary – well, one of them. I assume there must be more. This one only covers about six months of 1910.’
‘Clara? You mean the Countess we were talking about yesterday lunch-time?’
I nod.
‘I bet her diaries make interesting reading.’ Benji winks, but I remain serious.
‘This one talks about how she found herself in so much debt, actually. Death duties, apparently, after her husband died; not gambling debts, after all. Perhaps that was just gossip that got embellished over the years?’
‘Oh.’ Benji looks a little ashamed that he’s been one of the people passing on that titbit of information. He looks down into the box where all the other books still reside. ‘Are these books all Clara’s diaries?’
‘I’m not sure; I haven’t looked through the rest yet.’
Benji reaches into the box and pulls out another book. ‘This one is,’ he says, opening the cover. ‘And this,’ he adds, flicking through another. ‘Look, same handwriting.’
Bit by bit we examine all of the books, and find they’re a mix of Clara’s diaries and some other journals kept by another of the former Countesses.
‘Are there any more boxes like this?’ Benji asks, looking around the room. ‘You might have stumbled upon something worthwhile here.’
‘Let’s look, shall we?’ I put Clara’s diaries safely to one side, determined to read through them all later, and then I help Benji search through any boxes that look like they might contain diaries or journals.
Excitingly we do find more diaries belonging to Clara. Some are in old suitcases and trunks, one is in a battered leather satchel, and we even find a couple stashed inside a large chipped garden urn that I imagine might have stood proudly in the castle grounds at one time.
‘Well,’ Benji says, brushing the dust from his trousers when we’ve exhausted all the hiding places we can think of, ‘there’s a good bit of reading here. Do you want to take them to read first? She is your family.’
‘If that’s all right with you?’
‘Of course. There’s obviously a connection between the two of you. It’s understandable you’d want to explore it further. Go for it. Just let me know how you get on.’
‘Hey, how’s the sorting going?’ Tom asks me later when he finds me curled up under a tree on one of the new blue and white striped deckchairs that we’ve decided to put out for the visitors to rest on this summer. ‘Taking a well-earned break?’
‘Something like that. I’m doing a bit of research, actually.’
‘Oh yes?’ Tom asks, pulling another deckchair up next to me. ‘Into what?’
‘Into who, really – I’m reading Clara’s diaries.’
Tom looks puzzled for a second. ‘Oh, Clara – the woman in the painting you showed me?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Benji and I found a load of her diaries up in one of the rooms and I’m reading through them one by one.’
‘Interesting reading?’ Tom asks, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
‘If by interesting you mean saucy, then at times they
are a bit racy, yes.’
‘I thought as much,’ Tom says, glancing with interest at the page I’m currently reading.
I shut the cover. ‘But once you get past that, you realise that Clara was actually quite a lonely woman, especially when her husband was alive.’
Tom looks surprised. ‘Ah, that’s quite sad, then. Why especially when her husband was alive?’
I look at the book in my hand again, wondering if by telling Tom I was betraying Clara’s trust by giving away her secrets.
‘Going by what I’ve read so far, I think Clara might have been gay.’
‘Really?’ Tom looks surprised. ‘What makes you think that? No, wait, I don’t need to know details.’
‘It’s okay, there’s not that many of them. I just get the feeling that she might have been. Perhaps when I’ve read a few more of her diaries I’ll know for sure.’
Tom nods. ‘But you said she was married? Was that just a ruse, then, so people didn’t guess?’
‘I think it might have been partly that, but it was mainly to do with the fact she wouldn’t have been able to continue living here if she didn’t have a husband. She needed to be married to allow her to inherit when her father died, so I think she only married because of that. It’s to do with her father’s legacy and an ancient law. It’s complicated,’ I say when Tom looks a little lost.
‘Isn’t it always when families are concerned,’ he says knowingly.
‘Yes, I guess so.’ I wonder if Tom is talking from experience. ‘Anyway, I’m reading Clara’s diaries, and Benji is reading through a lot of the other journals we found up there, to see what he can discover.’
‘Good-oh, and have you found any more bits for your car— your courtyard sale?’
‘Lots; we’ll have quite a bit of stuff on our stall. I just hope we can entice some other people to come and sell here.’
‘Are you kidding? They’ll love it – a chance to sell your old junk in the grounds of a castle? They’ll be queuing up to book a stall once you advertise it.’
‘You think?’
‘I know it. You might not know this, but I spend a bit of time in the local pub, and there’s always someone talking about you or what’s going on at the castle.’
