by I Beacham
For the first time since the kiss, Ele smiled at her. “I can’t betray him either. It’s a tragedy. It makes you wonder if other real ghosts exist,” she said. “I’ve never seen a photograph of a ghost I believed in…until now. I wonder if there are others like us out there who have also kept the secret. Maybe we’re surrounded by ghosts and decent people.”
“I wish,” Kiernan said. “Not many people are too honorable these days. They’ll do, or sell, anything to make a buck.”
“But not us.”
“Not us.” The way Ele spoke us sounded close and private, hinting of connection. It gave Kiernan hope. Hope that something was growing between them and that she just needed to be patient and move at Ele’s speed. A small voice reminded her that she’d done precisely that with Chrissie, and look where that had led her.
She blotted the thought from her mind. It had been a long day, and Kiernan was tired. She could see Ele was too. Her face was drawn and paler than usual. She still had a ghost to contend with and no real idea of how to send him back to wherever. Though Kiernan longed to talk to Ele about certain aspects of the day—the personal ones—she now just wanted to get into her car, grab her inhaler, drive home, and sleep. She had a huge day tomorrow at work.
“If you want, you could stay the night. I’ve a spare room, and the bed is made up. Maybe you shouldn’t be alone tonight given your attack?”
Kiernan believed the invitation was genuine, but she caught the importance of the spare room. Ele wasn’t looking for a bedmate. Not tonight, anyway. Again, she put this down to Ele not wanting to rush things. In truth, she was also a little thankful. She needed to remember to go slowly. Chrissie had made her wary of jumping into another relationship too soon. Steady as she goes, she thought. Make sure this is what you want. But she already knew that answer. She wanted Ele. She was falling in love with her.
“I’ll stay if you’re worried about Stafford, but I’m okay, and I’ve a photo shoot tomorrow in Cambridge. It’ll be an early start, and all my equipment’s at home.” She had a sudden thought. “You could come with me, if you like?”
Ele shook her head. “No. But thank you. I feel stronger now I know who my ghost is. I can’t think there’s an ounce of harm in John Stafford, just a huge sadness.” She opened the door for Kiernan. “Can you imagine living through the hell of those trenches, getting injured, but making it home only to find the woman you adored had died of flu?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I could sleep through an air raid tonight.”
Kiernan didn’t know how to say good-bye. Should she hug Ele, or kiss her, or simply walk out with a farewell. She decided on the latter and nothing Ele did suggested she’d got it wrong.
“What are your plans?” she asked as she walked through the door, and out onto the gravel.
“I’m going to go to the churchyard and see if John Stafford is buried there.”
“Shall I phone you when I get back?”
“You’d better,” Ele said. “I need you.”
*
Ele stared at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. “Oh God, what have I done?” Her hands rose to her face. “I kissed her. I kissed her. What was I thinking?” She was trembling. Everything right had led her to that kiss. Why then did it feel so wrong, and why was she having a panic attack? It’s because you’re tired and emotional, she thought. You’ll think clearer after a decent night’s sleep. What would Beth think?
Not a day went by where she didn’t miss Beth, and she could still hear her voice after all these years. She could feel her touch and the way her breath had felt when she nuzzled up to her in bed. Her heart ached; she missed Beth so much.
It had been a long time since Beth died, and the aftereffects had been traumatic. When she had fallen ill, Ele had taken leave of absence from the morning show in order to look after her. Even when Beth returned to work, Ele had insisted she drive her in to the university and back daily. Beth had no longer been able to drive, and Ele had not trusted placing her beloved cargo into the havoc that was public transport.
When she died, Ele had been so shocked she couldn’t face going back in front of the cameras and had, to everyone’s regret, terminated her media contract.
In the years since, she had learned to cope with her loss, or thought she had. Attempting to reconnect with life, she did the occasional research job for TV documentaries and a small amount of broadcasting for local radio and the BBC. She had taken her bird-loving hobby and artistic abilities and turned them into an illustrated book.
Ele had been brave with dating too. She had met several women through social links, and although they had been nice people, there had been no electricity, no connection. The relationships had withered before they had even begun. She sometimes wondered whether Beth had ruined her for anyone else, that no one would ever come close. But that was before Kiernan had appeared.
“Do I want Kiernan, or am I leading her on? Am I replacing Beth, putting everything that was between us, on a shelf?”
Her agitation and confusion grew. Everything had been so comfortable until Kiernan arrived. She had her home, her albeit solitary existence, her writing, her cat. She was happy, she reasoned. But she was also lonely. She realized that today when she’d looked into Kiernan’s face under the hideous plant with the ugly leaves. And then the kiss. Her body alarm had gone off like a siren. How she longed for physical comfort. If she entered into a relationship with Kiernan—highly possible after today—would it last? Could it ever be anything like she’d shared with Beth? She might not even like Kiernan after she really got to know her. Her heart sank as she remembered. “I kissed her,” she repeated. “Oh, Beth, what am I going to do?”
She was in a flat spin. Featherstone broke her angst by meowing at her feet. Ele bent down and stroked him. Stop thinking, Ele. Shut up. Feed the cat, and get some sleep!
Chapter Fourteen
Pegmire churchyard was not a place to be on a morning like this. It was freezing, and a cutting north wind blew around Ele as she walked with haste around gravestones looking for John Stafford. She was disappointed. Not only did she not find his grave, many of the stones seemed to have disappeared, and there was a large expanse of bare churchyard where no gravestones remained. It was as if the land had been cleared.
A sharp gust of wind blew across and buffeted into her. Ele reached out to a gravestone for support. She considered that if she stayed out here any longer she might end up a permanent resident. She thought of Kier in Cambridge and hoped she wasn’t working outside. The TV weatherman had said the conditions were freezing over that side of the country today.
Looking toward the church, she could see inviting lights behind the stained glass windows, and every now and then, on the turn of the wind, she thought she could hear music. Seeking sanctuary, she hurried to the church porch and entered.
There were young children inside rehearsing for a nativity concert. Milling around them were proud parents and stressed teachers trying to bring order to chaos. Ele watched as a little boy, no older than six, ran past her.
“James, where are you going?” a man shouted.
The boy stopped and looked back, his face scrunched up. “I want the toilet.”
“Wrong way. It’s back here.” The same man now pointed to an area behind him. James raced back toward the man.
Ele sat in one of the many rows of pews and felt the comfort of the bench and its back support. Now she was out of the wind, her body turned warm, and she undid the scarf from around her neck. Again, she thought of Kier. Ele hadn’t asked her what her photo project was today, and Kier hadn’t mentioned it. Stay warm, Kier.
She listened to the silvery voices of the children as they started singing traditional carols. Their voices were enchanting, and the choirmaster had introduced a gentle descant from several boys who sang as if angels. Five minutes later, the angels disappeared and chaos returned as the children rushed by and out of the church. James walked past her, his gloves dangling from where they were attached to
his coat sleeves. He smiled at her—a cheeky smile—and she smiled back.
Ele loved children, but she didn’t miss not having her own. Instead, she lavished affection on her brother’s children on the rare occasion she saw them. Richard was an industrial engineer and now lived and worked in Italy. He was her only sibling, and despite loving him and his family to bits, she was always glad when any visit finished, and he and his wife went home—with their children.
The church became eerily quiet, and Ele was about to leave when she saw the vicar moving and stacking chairs at the front where the choir had practiced. She went down to him and introduced herself.
The vicar was the Reverend Miles Green, a man in his early forties and with a boyish countenance. He possessed a smile that lit his entire face and, with his ruffled sandy-colored hair, she could see why villagers thought of him as a huge teddy bear of a man. He was very popular with the congregation, and more so, the children.
Rev. Green recognized her. “You live up in the old vicarage.” He placed a chair down and came forward to greet her.
They spoke for a while of trivial, polite things before she turned the conversation to the matter of John Stafford, and that she was researching former occupants of her house.
“If he is buried here, you’ll be lucky to find his gravestone,” Rev. Green said. “That period of time, most of the burials were in the north facing side of the churchyard. It’s the side that catches the worst of the weather, and a lot of the stones are deteriorating badly. Those that are still standing, many of them you can’t read who’s buried there.” He sat in a pew with her. “Because of health and safety, we’ve had to clear a lot of them. We’ve started placing any of the stones that are still legible and in good condition, around the outer church walls, but the rest, I’m afraid, are beyond repair.
“This is happening in a lot of old churchyards all over the country. There’s also the problem of space. The land fills up, but the new occupants keep coming.” He smiled respectfully. “If we can, we clear the very oldest parts of the churchyard and then reuse the ground. It’s either that or turning to cremation. Not something everyone wants.”
Ele understood. “Are there any records I can access to try to establish if John Stafford is buried here?”
“Oh, yes,” the vicar said. “Every church has them. It’s where we record christenings, marriages, and burials. Of course, most of them are kept, like ours, in county records offices. That way they can be maintained and preserved in a humidity-controlled environment. I can give you the contact details of where ours are kept.”
She thanked him and was about to leave when he asked, “What year did you think Stafford died, when he might have been buried here?”
“I think either late nineteen eighteen or in the first few months of the following year. I don’t have precise dates.” Ele wasn’t sure how accurate Dot Harding was. All she knew was the house was sold in 1921 to the Wintermans.
Rev. Green rubbed his hands together with glee. “You might be in luck. Follow me.”
Ele tagged behind him into the vestry. It was a small room at the back of the church and was used for keeping vestments, vessels, and the robes of the clergy and choir.
He caught her looking at the choral clothing. “Do you sing?” he asked hopefully.
“Like a chain saw,” Ele replied dryly.
“Pity. We’re always looking for new voices.”
“Not mine, you’re not. Sorry.”
He gave a huge belly laugh.
He leaned his hands on a central table. “The vestry is where we used to keep the church records. Occasionally, we get some of the records back—they’re still our property—to do some research.” He looked down at an old wooden table, which was covered in aged leather books. “I get requests almost daily from people tracing family trees. I don’t have time to help them all, and I put them on to the county records office. But occasionally, we get requests and we like to be more helpful. I don’t get involved, but there are a few interested parishioners who look into these things.”
He pointed to a letter. “We’ve had a request from a Canadian family who once had roots in Pegmire. They’re coming over here this summer and have asked if we can help them. Mary Marsh, a parishioner, has taken up the challenge. Now the interesting thing”—the vicar stabbed a finger at the same letter—“is that their time period is the same as yours. That means, here on this desk somewhere are the burial records of the church nineteen seventeen to nineteen twenty-three. If you’ve time and don’t mind wading through them, you’re very welcome to look.”
As he excused himself to return to his previous task of clearing chairs away, he added, “Try not to move things around too much. It may not look like it, but Mary does have an ordered system in there somewhere.” Again, he grinned with boyish charm. “If you’re here long enough, you might meet her. She’s also been trying to work out who is buried, and where, so we can draw up a few plans for any future requests such as yours.”
He disappeared, and Ele sat and started going through the record of burials. Instinct told her to start with January, 1919, but she found nothing. It was when she got to Tuesday, 18 February, 1919, that she found a simple entry for Captain John Charles Stafford, late of Richmond, born 10 July 1890, died 3 January, 1919. The address given was hers. She found nothing else and no mention of his wife, but now she knew more. John Stafford was not buried, nor had his ashes been scattered, at the house. His remains lay here, in Pegmire Churchyard. She continued to search the entire book for burials in 1918, hoping to find some mention of Harriett Stafford, but she was disappointed.
As she was leaving, she thanked the vicar. In passing comment, he said he would mention Ele’s search to Mary who might be able to shine light on the actual spot where John Stafford was buried.
Though her search had been successful, the fruit of her day left her depressed. She couldn’t stop thinking how terrible it all was, that the loving couple had been robbed of life at so young an age, and then to be robbed of resting in peace together.
As she crossed the road to where her car was parked, she wandered over to look at the large stone World War I Remembrance Cross that dominated the village square. Its large base held the names of villagers who had given their lives during the Great War. How many times had she walked passed this memorial? This was the first time she had stopped to look at the names.
She hadn’t expected to find Stafford on it since he had not, technically, died in the war. But his name was there for everyone to see, and it filled Ele with an unusual feeling of pride, as if he were a friend or someone related to her.
As she arrived at her car, someone called her name, and she saw Roger, the builder, waving a walking stick and limping her way.
“Roger, what have you done?” she exclaimed walking up and putting her arms around him. He was more than a builder to her. He had been such a tower of support when Beth had fallen ill.
“Broke my ruddy foot! I kicked something heavy in the garden, nothing on my feet. Serves me right.”
They exchanged pleasant conversation, catching up on what they’d each been doing for the last few months. He was delighted to learn that Ele’s illustrated book on woodpeckers was about to be published and mentioned how much his wife, Joan, was looking forward to purchasing it. “She loves birds and has even more bird feeders in the garden now.”
“Don’t let her buy the book, Roger. I’d love to give you a copy for her. I’ll write something nice inside it.”
“That would be kind of you.” He hesitated, his face more serious before continuing. “I don’t suppose you’d like to bring it over and hand it to her personally? She’d love that, and it might give her a lift.”
Ele could tell something was wrong and asked Roger directly.
Roger was not the type of man who shared his problems easily, but perhaps that barrier had been erased when Beth had died. Roger and Joan had been true friends and a great support to Ele during those black days. He had driv
en her to get the death certificate and also helped her to make funeral arrangements. Joan had sent him over to the house with more than a few prepared meals she just had to heat up. In those days following the death, Ele had not wanted to eat, let alone cook. She lost count of the number of meals she had with him and Joan. Even when her own, and Beth’s, family had been there at the Oxford funeral and where she was buried, Roger had stood by her side in the church and held her hand. That something was wrong with Roger and his family, Ele wanted to be there for him, to repay all his kindness.
“The wife’s not too well,” he confided. “She just can’t sleep. It’s been going on for months. At first, I thought it was because Sarah had left for uni—the last kid to flee the nest—but it’s not that. She’s been to the doctor’s and he’s given her a full checkup. He can’t find anything wrong. But she still can’t sleep, and it’s dragging her down and making her very depressed, and very bad tempered. I tell you, sometimes, Ele, I dread going home.”
“Maybe you should see another doctor,” Ele said.
“My brother says that. I suppose I’m a bit frightened in case it’s something more serious, maybe mental issues.”
“How do you mean?”
“Funny things, Ele. She loves the garden, but won’t go in it anymore. Says being outside scares her.” He laughed self-consciously. “The doctor thinks she’s agoraphobic. Can you believe that? You know how much she loves her garden and her birds. She won’t even top up the birdseed in the feeders now. On the rare occasions she manages to sleep, she has nightmares. Bloody awful. She wakes up in a sweat and then refuses to try to go back to sleep.” He shrugged and looked every bit uncomfortable. “This foot hasn’t helped. I’ve been at home more than usual, and we just snipe at each other. Frankly, I’m at my wit’s end.”
Roger bit his lip, forcing back emotions. She placed her hand on his arm. “I’m expecting some of my books to arrive imminently. I get them before the publishing date. As soon as they do, I’ll pop round with one.”
