Читать книгу The Dream Weavers - Barbara Erskine - Страница 9

Bea arranged to meet Simon in one of her favourite coffee shops in Church Street, almost in the shadow of the cathedral, round the corner from her home. They had never met before, but she spotted him at once, hesitating in the doorway, looking round. His glance swept over her, moved on, then came back. She wondered what sort of person he was looking for. The one he saw was a woman of middle height, her hair wavy, mid brown, no make-up, but undeniably attractive, with clear skin and large grey-green eyes. She raised a hand and he nodded, threading his way between the tables towards her.

She half expected him to be embarrassed. People usually were when they talked about ghosts; embarrassed or dismissive or scared, but he seemed calm and humorously resigned.

‘Mrs Dalloway?’

‘Beatrice, please. Or better still, Bea.’

He smiled. ‘I’m Simon.’

The waitress brought their coffee and Bea studied him surreptitiously as the girl set out their cups. He was tall – he had had to bend his head beneath the low beams as he crossed the room – with a hearty outdoor complexion, a sturdy tweed jacket, tousled blond hair and hazel eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would have had him down as a local farmer, certainly not the London academic Chris had described. Age: indeterminate. Probably much the same as her.

‘I expect Christine has filled you in on my problem,’ he said when the waitress had gone. ‘When I rented the cottage, she never mentioned a ghost.’

Bea found herself grimacing. ‘I don’t think, to be fair, she knew there was one.’

Chris, one of Bea’s staunchest and best friends, had bought the small tumbledown building several years ago. With the help of her husband, Ray, she had done it up to be the most perfect retreat.

‘I have heard a great deal about her tenants over the years, and as far as I can see if they find anything at all to gripe about in what must be one of the loveliest holiday lets in the country, a ghost has never been one of them. So, what makes you think there is one?’

He pushed the milk jug towards her. ‘I don’t. That was her idea.’ He gave a sudden grin. It lit up his hitherto rather solemn face. ‘When she couldn’t think of any logical explanation for the voice I’ve been hearing, it was the only thing she could suggest. Being the perfect landlady, she knew at once who to turn to. I could hardly offend her by telling her it was a ludicrous idea. I take it you know the cottage?’

Bea nodded. ‘I’ve been there a few times.’ She was trying to suppress her sense of excitement. She was intrigued.

‘And you didn’t ever feel anything amiss when you were there?’

‘No, but then I wouldn’t necessarily have done so. I wasn’t looking for a problem.’ She thought for a minute. ‘I’m not sure if you know anything about my rather unusual job, Simon, but presumably Chris filled you in, or you wouldn’t be here. I don’t walk around the town seeing ghosts wherever I look, all touchy-feely and other-worldly. Nor do I do exorcisms. There is a very competent deliverance team here in the cathedral who will help you if that is what you require. Or there is a psychic Druid who lives over in the Black Mountains beyond Hay who can perform an equally good service if you choose to take that route. I trained with him myself a few years back. I myself work as a freelance practitioner.’

For a moment he looked dumbfounded. ‘So, what do you do exactly?’ he asked at last.

The touch of amused scepticism in his voice brought her up short. Taking a deep breath, she reined in her enthusiasm. ‘I deal with situations that other people consider frightening: the darkest corners of old houses, the sudden banging of doors, the creak of floorboards, the shadows thrown on a wall from an unseen presence. I go to houses that are uncomfortable, find out why and remove the irritant. It may indeed be a ghost,’ she glanced up at him with a rueful smile, ‘but often it’s no more than a draughty corner, or it may be something in the underlying geology of the land; it may be something simply sorted by what people call feng shui; it may be underground water or an unhappy tree or an unfortunate choice of wallpaper, or sometimes merely a difficult neighbour.’

She had spent years training to deal with whatever arose, to rule out the obvious, to produce a screwdriver, to ring a plumber and, occasionally – very occasionally – to speak to lost souls, to reassure the newly departed and guide them gently on their way, to work with shadows and echoes and re-enactments from a past not as long gone as it should be.

He rubbed his face with his hands and stared at her in mock despair. ‘Wow! Well, it isn’t the wallpaper, I can tell you that much. And I checked with the neighbouring farm this morning and they have no animal, lost or otherwise, of any description, called Elise or indeed anything else. But a ghost?’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Rational people don’t actually believe in ghosts, surely?’

So, why on earth had he bothered to come to meet her? This wasn’t the first time she found herself regretting the day she had confided her interest in the paranormal to Christine.

‘OK.’ She paused. ‘Well, we’ll leave it as something to consider once all the other explanations for your visitor have been ruled out. But I would ask you to be open-minded if you can. Sadly, the response of most people to supernatural happenings they can’t or won’t accept, or situations they find frightening, is to mock.’ She was watching his face, so far studiedly neutral, and was pleased to see him wince as she used the word. ‘Let’s say, for me these things are real. I am lucky enough to be one of those people who are able to access that world and discern what is causing the imbalance that is making a place uncomfortable, or if something is wrong, contact the beings involved and help them find peace.’ She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

‘Well, that’s me told! And I thought you looked quite normal.’ He reached for his coffee. There was a brief pause. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be as rude as it sounded. OK. Here’s what’s happening. Let’s see what you make of it. I rented the cottage to give myself a few months’ peace. As I expect Christine told you, I’m an author.’

She nodded. Several would-be authors had found their way to Chris’s cottage over the years. Presumably they thought the isolated position, the uncertain internet connection, the dark skies and stunning views would inspire them.

‘I am writing a history of the Anglo-Saxons,’ he went on. ‘The Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia to be exact. I have already written about the kingdoms of East Anglia and Wessex. This is volume three of seven. I have formed a habit of renting a cottage on-site, as it were, when I am on my final draft, to make sure I have an authentic feel of the area I’m writing about and be near local museums and suchlike. I live in London and I have two teenage kids. Peace is at a premium, so that idea works for me. My last two writing retreats were in Suffolk and the New Forest. I saw this cottage online and it seemed ideal. Right on the border between England and Wales – or in my book, between Mercia and Powys – and I was beguiled by the place’s charm in the pictures.’

She was studying his face closely and he looked away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

‘At first I assumed the voice belonged to a real person, obviously,’ he hesitated, then went on, ‘I still do, to be honest. I assumed Elise was her lost dog, or perhaps a child. But not again and again. If it was a child missing there would be people looking, police, search parties, helicopters, … but now,’ his voice trailed away. ‘But now, OK, I admit it, I’m not so sure she, the voice, is real. If it was, I would at least have caught a glimpse of the woman by now. I’ve tried hard enough. But Christine assures me it isn’t the wind or the water pipes or any of your other candidates for weird noises. I rush outside when I hear her, and I call out to her.’ He raised his eyes from his cup and held her gaze. ‘And,’ he hesitated, ‘I acknowledge I do feel uncomfortable when I hear her. Cold. And her voice is odd. It comes from far away.’ He looked down into his cup again. ‘Once or twice she’s banged on the door in the night. When I open it, there’s no one there.’

There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of soft, murmured conversation at the other tables.

‘I’m a rational man,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘I do not believe in ghosts, but for the last day or so I have been querying my own sanity. That was why I rang Christine. I asked her if it was possible a previous tenant had lost something, because she kept coming round, calling, and I told her I was finding it distracting. I need her to go away! That’s when Christine made this ludicrous suggestion that it might be a ghost. I thought she was joking.’ He grinned. ‘And then,’ he sighed, ‘after I ended the call I found myself, only for a nanosecond, you understand, wondering if it actually was a ghost. Or something to do with my writing – perhaps I had somehow conjured her out of my text.’

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.