She saw a touch of embarrassment in his self-deprecating smile as she pondered his words. ‘If you have, this would be a first for me. Someone who writes themselves a ghost. I take it this didn’t happen in Suffolk or the New Forest?’
‘No. It didn’t. So, as Christine has brought you in as the cavalry, can you do something?’
This was the time to make her apologies, to say she was no longer doing house cleansing, tell him she was too busy doing other things. Perhaps tell him the truth: that she had virtually promised her husband Mark she would no longer dabble in the supernatural. Anything but arrange to visit the cottage. But already she had felt that faint prickle at the back of her neck, the slight frisson of excitement. There was something here to be followed up, she could sense it already.
2
‘He’s such a sweetie. Didn’t you think?’ Chris said later on the phone. She didn’t wait for Bea to answer. ‘Perhaps it’s someone camping locally having a laugh, or someone from the farm. I know you told me never to mention the subject of ghosts in front of Ray or Mark, and that you aren’t going to do it any more, but there wouldn’t be any harm in looking, would there? He’s obviously a bit pissed off, and I’d hate to lose him as a tenant. I’ve never had a long let like this before.’
In spite of herself, Bea was smiling when she put down her phone. Chris and her husband Ray were darlings. She could visualise the conversation so easily. Chris’s remit was sheets and towels and groceries. Ghosts. No. For ghosts, ring Bea. Box ticked.
Mark was in the kitchen preparing supper when Bea finished the call. Behind the elegance of its late Georgian frontage and main rooms their house, the one that came with his job, still clung to medieval roots and the high-ceilinged kitchen came from that much older age. It was large, with ancient flagstones on the floor. The dresser and larder and the huge scrubbed oak table may have come from another century; the cooker, fridge and dishwasher were, thank heaven, modern.
Mark looked up when she walked in and pushed a glass of wine across the table in her direction. ‘Was that Chris on the phone? How is she?’
Sitting down, she picked up the glass. ‘She’s fine.’ She hesitated. Should she keep silent or tell him about the ghost? She hated the thought of lying. Hated the thought of being put in this position at all. Better perhaps to prevaricate for now. ‘She was telling me that there’s a problem with her holiday let. You remember the cottage up on Offa’s Ridge? She’s rented it to an author for several months, so she’s a bit twitchy about everything being perfect for him. I said I would go up there with her tomorrow to take a look.’
He turned back to the chopping board. ‘Did she say what kind of problem?’
She shook her head. ‘I expect we’ll turn it into an excuse for a girls’ lunch.’
Simon had slipped the spare key off his key ring and given it to her before they parted. It appeared he was planning to go out next day. ‘Better if I’m not there. Go and have a poke around on your own. See if you can sort it.’
On her own.
It had been too late to say no. And after all, how difficult could it be – a wailing voice and a knocking at the door in the night? She had dealt with worse, much worse, before.
Bea loved her husband unreservedly, had done ever since the first time she had laid eyes on him when they were both going to the same sixth form college. Standing in their kitchen, chopping vegetables in his Snoopy T-shirt, a present from their daughter Petra, it was easy to forget that he now gloried in the title of Canon Treasurer at one of England’s great cathedrals. Without the dog collar, he was himself.
They had first met going backwards and forwards to college. He was the best-looking boy she had ever seen. Tall, dark hair, scruffy, but not overly so, and with the most charming smile, he had made a beeline for her on the bus on the first day of term and sat down beside her. She only realised how much of a catch he was when she saw the other girls scowling. Their friendship became close and they started to go out together at weekends and sometimes in the evenings to local dances or the pub. No one else had ever had a look in. They confided in each other and told each other their hopes and dreams – and her dreams of the future included Mark. There was only one thing she had kept from him. Her secret life.
When she was a child, it had been her grandmother who listened to her half-excited, half-frightened stories of another world, and told her they were normal. Her grandmother understood, saw as she did, and warned her that not everyone saw these things and that people would tell her that it was all her imagination. In an over-rational, hypercritical world it was easier to keep quiet about her gift than talk about it. Her Nan had also warned her that some people would be afraid of her.
Bea and Mark went on to university together, she to read English, he to do business studies with a view to joining his father’s firm in the City. In her secret heart of hearts, she’d imagined that one day they would marry. For two years, life continued according to her plan, but then came his sudden announcement and her world fell apart.
He was going to give up his business course and become a priest. They would still be there at uni together, he assured her, still travel up and down on the same train at the beginning and end of term. But, perhaps inevitably, she realised almost at once that he was becoming a stranger. When her parents moved to London, she went with them. His original plan to join her there was abandoned. After graduation he took a curacy far away in the North of England. They lost touch. She applied for a post as an English teacher close enough to her parents to stay with them until she found her feet.
She had lost Mark, but she had not lost her interests. She began to attend workshops and seminars, meeting people with the same abilities as herself. She studied healing and spiritual development. She studied ghosts. That was when she realised she had found her true calling.
Boyfriends came and went. No one serious. No one who could ever take Mark’s place. And then, out of the blue, they met again quite by accident and that had been that. She’d put aside her reservations, swept into the giddy passion that carried them into marriage and through his first two parishes, where she had proved herself remarkably good at being a vicar’s wife with two children and a respectable job in a local school.
But her gift never left her, nor did her wish to help the people who needed her services as a healer and a medium. That was a part of her, and she’d told Mark about it before they married. At first he was shocked and incredulous. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that this is all in your head? That you’re imagining it?’
And she had said, yes, of course it had occurred to her, and perhaps he was right, that was all it was. ‘But it is very real to me, Mark. And it works.’ They left it at that.
She knew he was uncomfortable with it, but he had reluctantly accepted his wife’s strange gifts in the end, what else could he do? She had helped him by keeping that side of her life to herself as far as possible. People came to her through quiet recommendations and mostly she worked alone. She was discreet. She never charged. Her grandmother’s advice, to keep schtum, stayed with her; it was the unspoken rule she and Mark both lived by. Most of the time.
Everything changed after it was suggested that his career, his popularity in his parishes, his calm competence and his background in business, had been noticed and that the Dean and Chapter at Hereford Cathedral might view his application for the vacant position as Canon Treasurer with interest. She hadn’t been at all sure what it would mean to give up their sprawling rural parish and move into the Cathedral Close; the idea worried her, but Mark had been so certain this was God’s calling. These days, clergy partners follow their own lives, he assured her. She could still be a teacher.
She could still be a healer of houses.
As long as no one knew about it.
He accepted the job.
Their daughters, Petra and Anna, viewed the change with tolerant good humour. They were both bright, serious, and remarkably level-headed, as they used to point out, considering their
father was a vicar and their mother a psychic. Neither had inherited Bea’s gifts, though secretly she saw her own skills as a healer in Petra, who had from a small child wanted to become a vet. It was from Mark that Anna inherited her love of music which led her to want to make it her career. They had settled easily into their new bedrooms, loving the creaky floorboards and the beautiful little cast iron fireplaces and the views, one to the front and one to the back of the house. Both were at university now, Petra studying to be a vet in Edinburgh, Anna in her first year at the Royal Academy of Music in London.
The household had become suddenly very quiet.
Bea gave up her full-time job when they moved. She became a supply teacher instead. The spasmodic routine suited her second job perfectly. As promised, she pursued it with discretion.
Their lives settled down until that day when, a year ago, in an old house deep in the remote countryside of the Welsh Marches, she had encountered her first poltergeist and she and Mark had had their first major row.
The drive had been long and winding, the house at the end of it ancient, hung with creepers, and almost at once Bea felt a twinge of doubt. On the phone the problem had seemed textbook. Ghostly noises. Knocking. Items being moved about in the night.
As she parked her car and climbed out, she had realised at once that she shouldn’t have come alone. One of the rules was, if it looks in any way complicated, take someone with you; make sure there is someone there to cover your back There was something here and it was something bad. But it was too late to turn back. The front door had opened and the couple who had contacted her emerged. Mr and Mrs Hutton were elderly – perhaps late middle age – and they were clinging to one another, their fear and anxiety obvious.
‘Are you the ghost hunter?’ Ken Hutton had wrenched his arm out of the clutches of the woman at his side and ran down the steps. ‘Thank the lord you’re here! Go in. Quickly. It’s happening now!’
Bea had a routine. Protect herself; surround herself with light. Stay very calm. A quick prayer. Do not show fear. Never show fear. Project unthreatening love and reassurance.
‘It’s started throwing things.’ Daisy Hutton had been visibly shaking. ‘I wish we’d never come to this wretched place!’
‘We should have known there was a reason the rent was so low,’ Ken had muttered. ‘We’re leaving, I’ll tell you that much. We’re leaving as soon as we can, and we’ll want our deposit back!’
‘I’m not going back in.’ Daisy was genuinely traumatised.
‘Nor me.’ Ken had shaken his head violently. ‘You go in. First door on your left down the hall. In the library. God help you! We’ll be in the garden when you’ve finished.’
For a moment Bea stared after them before turning back towards the house. She had never felt more alone.
‘Christ be with me, Christ within me.’ She had repeated the age-old words of the breastplate of St Patrick as she headed towards the front door. The safety net, the all-encompassing, wraparound armour of the prayer, would keep her safe; surround her with light.
The hall was shadowy, with oak floors and panelled walls. Old blistered paintings hung on the walls, and there was a worn Persian rug on the floor. The house had smelt damp, she remembered vividly, and cold, and yes, there was an atmosphere of evil so intense it seemed to drip from the beams. Grasping her pocket-sized Bible and her small carved wooden cross, picturing herself as safe and strong in her protective shield, she took a deep breath and opened the door of the library.
Something huge and black flew at her head. It landed at her feet with a crash and she saw it was a book, its pages torn and splayed. Within seconds several other books were hurtling round the room, a chair toppled over in front of her, a candlestick rolled across the table, the room was filled with a sound like the roaring of the wind and she felt a powerful thrust between her shoulder blades. It sent her reeling.
She had no time to think. Her reactions were automatic. She held out the cross in front of her and addressed the entity as though it were a naughty child. ‘Stop it! Now! You can’t frighten me.’
The response was a hiss and a demonic shriek from somewhere on the far side of the room. Clutching the cross more tightly, she had ploughed on resolutely. ‘I can help you. I can give you a road out of here and guide you towards peace and light.’ She dodged again as another book fell at her feet. The room’s temperature had fallen several degrees and in the corner she had seen the sudden flicker of flames. It had been a battle of wills. Her opponent was a man, an elderly man, deeply unhappy and beleaguered; at his wits’ end. Almost as soon as she sensed his identity, he was there, in the shadows. ‘Let me help you.’ She didn’t plead. She was in control and reassuring. She paused, waiting for the next book to fly at her. Silence. The atmosphere had changed. The flames in the corner died down, leaving the smell of charred wood. He listened to her.
Bea had been able to see him more clearly at the end, stooped with pain, agonising physical pain, lonely, wrapped in a shabby woollen garment like a dressing gown, trimmed with fur. The room had smelt musty, airless. It was so cold that Bea’s breath was condensing in front of her as she moved towards him. ‘I’m here to help you. I want you to look upwards, towards the light. She was visualising a large double door, opening onto a beautiful landscape. ‘It’s open, can you see? It leads to somewhere warm and full of sunshine. It’s safe there. Step towards it. That’s right.’ She saw him hesitate, glance round. There was a heavy leather-bound book in his hand and after a moment he leaned forward and put it on the table. She heard him groan as if the slightest movement was painful. ‘That’s right,’ she encouraged. ‘Only a few steps more. There is no more pain in the next life. It is bright and full of sunlight. There are friends there. Leave this dark place behind.’
He took a step towards the corner of the room where she pictured the door. Then another. He was almost through when it all went wrong.
‘Has it gone?’ The voice in the doorway had made her jump. Ken Hutton was staring in, his knuckles white on the doorframe.
Irritated, Bea had tried to ignore the interruption. ‘It’s beautiful through there. And safe. Angels are waiting for you; can you see them? You are not alone now. Go with God, my friend. Be at peace.’
In her mind’s eye, she had reached out to close the door behind him and as she did so a flash had cut across the room. ‘Got it!’ Ken had been triumphant.
Bea had turned to see the camera in his hand. It was pointing straight at her. ‘Don’t!’ she shouted. ‘I do not want photographs. I explained to you, this visit must remain totally private and confidential. You agreed.’
He had lowered the camera reluctantly and she remembered his words clearly. ‘It was so incredible. Impressive. I wonder if I got the ghost. Did you see him? I could hear you talking as if he was an ordinary bloke. It was a bloke? He won’t come back, will he? Oh bloody hell! Look at the mess. All these old books. I’ll clear it up if it’s safe now. Chuck them all on the fire.’
The visit to that house had shaken her more than she liked to admit. Still in shock, she hadn’t mentioned it to Mark. Then, four days later, there was a headline on the front page of the local paper:
LOCAL GHOSTHUNTER EXORCISES POLTERGEIST,
photos on pp 3, 6 and 7
Mark had been beside himself. ‘Have you any idea of the harm this will do? I asked you, I begged you, to be discreet. You’re on the front page for heaven’s sake!’ He had shaken the paper at her.
‘Let me see!’ She had finally managed to snatch it off him. ‘Look. It’s all blurry, Mark. No one would recognise me.’ The large leather volume, balanced on the edge of the table, was in centre focus. It was actually rather a good picture. She could see herself there in the background, a white face, an arm raised with the cross in her hand. Oh God, that was dramatic, like the poster for a film, but her face was in shadow. Dodging away from Mark, she scrabbled in the paper, looking for the inside pages. There were half a dozen more photos, none of them recognisable,
she was pretty sure, and none of the ghostly figure. There was a long article with the pictures. She scanned it quickly, praying her name was not mentioned. It wasn’t. The journalist had made a big thing of the absolute anonymity demanded by the exorcist, describing her, rather flatteringly, as an attractive woman with phenomenal powers. Bea dropped the paper, relieved. ‘The chances are no one will see it, Mark. It’s gutter journalism. And if they do read it, they won’t know it’s me.’
He had looked at her, his face white. ‘It says there that the creature, the ghost, tried to kill you, Bea. It says you wrestled with it, that there was furniture flying round the room and you exorcised it with bell book and candle and flashing lights.’
‘That’s complete nonsense,’ she had retorted, flustered. ‘The flashing lights were from Ken Hutton’s own camera. And the poor soul wasn’t a creature, Mark. You of all people should know that. He was the shadow of an old man. He was more frightened of me than I was of him. An earthbound spirit who was sick and frightened and lonely. He threw the books at me because there was nothing else there to defend himself with. I prayed with him, Mark. I did not perform any kind of exorcism – how I hate that word – and he left.’
‘It says there in the paper that he tried to kill you!’
‘That is somebody’s imagination.’ She had reached out for Mark’s hand. ‘I knew what to do, darling. I was safe. And I did tell Mr Hutton before I went there that everything I did had to be confidential. He agreed.’ She sighed. ‘He broke his word. It won’t happen again.’
Had she promised not to do it again, something that was as much a part of herself as breathing? No, not as such, but perhaps she had let Mark believe that was what she meant.
But a visit to a holiday cottage on Offa’s Ridge was hardly comparable; a ghostly voice, at best a woman hunting for a lost pet, at worst a restless spirit, perhaps, nothing more. She would be able to sense at once what if anything was wrong, deal with it and be home before Mark had returned from evensong.
The Dream Weavers Page 2
