Hiding From the Light (20 page)

‘Emma, it’s gorgeous!’ Flora had arrived unannounced, drawing up in her old bright green Volkswagen Beetle as Emma was preparing to go shopping. ‘I had no idea it was going to be so pretty.’ She was exploring, darting first into the living room, then into the kitchen, examining every corner. She turned and gave Emma a hug, then retrieved her basket from the hall. ‘Here. Pressies. I wasn’t sure what you were going to need so I brought you lots of stuff!’

There was a pretty pottery oil burner, a Flaming Katy pot plant, a bottle of mead, a ping pong ball for the cats and an electric-blue fringed silk shawl for Emma – or more likely for a chair!

‘Why on earth didn’t you ring?’ Emma was overwhelmed by her friend’s enthusiasm.

‘Spur of the moment. I had two cancellations, so no work today and I thought, why not! You don’t mind, do you?’ The huge green eyes were suddenly worried.

‘Of course not. It’s just …’ Emma paused. ‘Piers is coming down tomorrow.’

Flora grimaced. ‘So?’

‘So, I can’t ask you to stay.’

‘Oh, sweetie! I wasn’t going to! Besides,’ Flora hesitated. ‘You never told me it was haunted.’

Emma stared at her.

‘You did know?’ Flora caught her hand. ‘I felt it as soon as I came through the door.’

‘Yes.’ Emma sank into a chair. ‘I did know. I’ve never seen her, but I know there is someone here.’

‘And you’re not scared?’ Flora scanned her face anxiously.

‘No.’

‘Good. There’s no need.’ Flora glanced round the room ‘She’s pleased you’re here.’

Emma smiled. This kind of talk was one of the eccentricities of Flora’s that she used to smile at tolerantly. Suddenly it no longer seemed eccentric. On the contrary. It seemed normal. ‘I know and I’m glad. I love it here so much.’

Except for the nightmares. She bit her lip. ‘How could you tell it was haunted?’

‘Same as you, I expect.’ Flora grinned. ‘Some people can sense these things easily, others –’ she leaned forward and punched Emma playfully on the shoulder – ‘take longer to get round to it. Right.’ She sat down and reaching for her bag, she produced three small bottles of essential oil and a box of matches. ‘Here, I wasn’t sure if you had any oils left. Let’s light the burner. Lavender and rosemary. And juniper. They give protection. Cleansing. This was a witch’s house, yes?’ She glanced up for a fraction of a second, then concentrated once more on counting drops of oil onto the water in the burner.

‘How did you know that?’

‘Didn’t you tell me?’

‘No.’

Flora shrugged. ‘She was a good witch. She must have been. The vibes are nice. Most of them.’ She glanced back through the door towards the hall with a slight frown.

Emma raised an eyebrow, half amused, half wary. ‘Most? Not all? Is that why you don’t want to spend the night?’

For a moment Flora didn’t answer. She lit the night-light under the oils and pushed the burner to the centre of the table.

‘There is something uncomfortable here, Em. Someone – something – is hovering. It’s probably nothing significant.’

She spotted Min on the window sill outside and jumped to her feet. ‘Show me the garden, Em. I am so envious of you. I’m tempted to throw up London, you know, and come and help you with your herb garden.’

‘Really?’ Emma tried to push the thought of something hovering out of her head.

‘Really.’ Flora followed her out into the garden. ‘So, Piers is coming?’ She fixed Emma with a disapproving glare. ‘Does he come often?’

‘The first visit.’ Emma shrugged.

‘But he’s out of your life?’

Emma shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. He might like it here.’

‘Oh, get real, Em. This is deeply, deeply not Piers.’ Flora waved her arms expansively. Then she shivered. ‘You know, there is something odd about this place, Em. Someone is watching us, someone impatient for me to leave.’

Emma forced a laugh. ‘Stop it. You’re scaring me! Listen, come shopping. I’ve got to buy lots of goodies for the weekend and we’ll go to The Crown and grab some lunch. How about that? Take you away from all this atmosphere.’

‘She won’t like Piers, Em. She won’t want him here. You must be careful.’ Flora caught her hand.

‘Who won’t like him? Stop it, Flora.’

Flora shrugged. ‘Sorry. I can’t help it.’ She gave a last glance round and turned back towards the house. ‘Right. Shopping it is. And the pub sounds good, too!’

Through the open kitchen window Emma could hear the thin melancholy song of the robin sitting on top of the wall of the old wash-house. She paused for a moment in her chores, listening. That was one of the most beautiful and the saddest sounds in nature. It meant goodbye to the summer and the warmth and beauty of the sunshine and the flowers and heralded the start of winter. She found herself shivering in spite of the warmth of the bright room with its Aga. Flora’s visit had unsettled her.

She could hardly believe it when Piers had agreed to come. When she phoned him and explained about the dinner invitation from the Wests, she had expected a cold rejection. Instead he had seemed pleased, relieved even, to hear from her and he arrived at half past twelve with flowers, two bottles of wine, a woven tapestry throw from Heals as a housewarming present and two packets of cat treats for the ecstatically purring Max and Min.

‘So, how is country life?’ He poured them each a glass of wine and sat down at the pine table as she filled saucepans with water and juggled her heavy earthenware dishes between ovens.

‘It’s good, Piers. I’m enjoying it.’ She pushed her hair out of her eyes and accepted a glass from him.

‘Any sign of a job?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘In the spring. By then I’ll have the herb garden ready to roll.’

‘I’m looking forward to seeing this.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘Emma Dickson with soil under her fingernails doling out flower pots at two ninety-nine a pop.’

‘I won’t starve, Piers.’ She glanced at him crossly. ‘David is giving me some freelance work. I’m on-line. I get the FT delivered by a boy on a bike from the village every morning. If the plants don’t sell, and I feel I’m getting hungry I’ll set up as a financial adviser or maybe I’ll go and work in a shop or write a book.’ She smiled and leaned forward to give his arm a playful punch. ‘I will be fine. And you could always come and be a commuter and support me.’ She meant it as a joke.

He frowned and looked away, making a sudden fuss of Min who had leaped onto his lap and was crooning as she rubbed her head against his chin.

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean that last bit. It wasn’t supposed to be a serious option.’ She took a large gulp of wine.

‘Good,’ he replied softly. ‘Because it isn’t an option. Sorry.’

She put on a CD to ease them over the silences as they ate, the soft sad cadences of piano and sax backed from time to time by the thin song of the robin accompanying her soup, homemade bread and cheese and the fresh fruit salad. ‘I’m sure we’ll have a big meal this evening. So, shall we go and walk by the river? Visit the art gallery? Go and feed the swans?’ It was strange having to plan the day, to entertain him, to realise that here, he didn’t belong.

They enjoyed their walk. He bought her a pretty dish from the pottery studio on the quay, they strolled along the river towards Manningtree and up into the town, then home. It was seven thirty when they climbed into her car and headed towards Bradfield.

Alex and Paula lived in a modern, ranch-style house at the end of a long gravelled drive. It overlooked open farmland which, in the dark, was bleak and featureless beneath the sweep of their headlights.

Emma pulled the car up near the front door and switched off the engine. She gave Piers a wink. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

The house was warm and bright and full of music. Alex greeted them cordially and led the way into an open-plan living room at one end of which the table was laid for four. No other guests, then.

‘Paula will be down in a sec.’ He busied himself getting their drinks. ‘And meanwhile meet the sprogs. Come and say hello, kids.’

‘Daddy says you’ve got two cats.’ Sophie gazed at Emma earnestly. ‘Mummy won’t let us have any pets.’

‘Now, that’s not entirely true, Soph.’ Alex frowned. He handed a glass to Emma.

‘It is true. I always speak the truth!’ The child’s expression was very serious. She had a pale, pretty face with huge dark eyes. Long red-blonde hair was held off her forehead by an Alice band. ‘I wanted a kitten and a puppy and a pony for my last three birthdays and I didn’t get any of them.’

‘That’s because I know you wouldn’t look after them properly and I haven’t got the time!’ Their mother had appeared in the doorway behind them. ‘Hi! I’m Paula.’ A slim, elegant thirty-nine year old, Paula West had smartly highlighted short blonde hair and immaculate make up. She was wearing beautifully cut trousers and a powder-blue silk shirt which emphasised the colour of her eyes.

‘Daddy would look after them with us,’ Sophie pursued her train of thought relentlessly. ‘He said he would.’

‘He may have said so, but Daddy hasn’t got time.’ Paula accepted the gin and tonic her husband put in her hand and threw herself down into a chair. ‘Please, people, sit.’ She raised a glass to them. ‘TV now, kids. In the playroom, please.’ She shrugged at Emma. ‘I know I shouldn’t let them, but we get no time to ourselves, otherwise. You did get a video for them, Alex, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, dear, of course I did.’ Alex handed a glass to Piers. ‘The kids are fine. They are having a picnic in there.’ He winked at his guest.

Mystified by this sign of complicity, Piers nodded wisely. ‘I gather you chose the short straw and gave up the City,’ he commented.

Alex grimaced. ‘I don’t know if I really had that much choice at the time. But I don’t regret it now. You wouldn’t get me going back there for any money.’

‘Because you don’t have to commute; you don’t have to come home exhausted day after day and turn round before it’s light next morning to set off back again!’ Paula had drained her glass. She held it out to her husband and he took it without comment. He had not, Emma noticed, even touched his own drink. She glanced at Piers and their eyes met. The unmistakable message was, Oh God, it’s going to be one of those evenings when the hosts snipe at one another remorselessly and the guests wished they had never come.

In fact, it was not that bad. The first gin had revived Paula and once they had moved to the table to eat smoked salmon followed by a crown roast with tiny buttery potatoes and autumn vegetables, she had mellowed enough to compliment her husband on his cooking.

‘Of course, the country is better for the kids. It’s bound to be.’ She had rejected the potatoes, but helped herself to more carrots and broccoli. ‘But we can’t help wondering if once they move on to the next school it would be better if they were in London.’

‘No.’ Alex’s voice, though quiet, was firm. ‘They are fine here; they have friends; they love it here; and yes, they could have pets here. Sophie could have a pony; they could sail. All sorts of things. And they have Lyndsey to take care of them –’ He broke off and his eyes flew to Emma’s face in mute appeal.

She shrugged imperceptibly, not knowing what to say. It was fairly easy to guess his meaning. Don’t tell Paula just how much Lyndsey looks after them; and above all don’t tell her that the babysitter is a witch. Especially don’t tell her she is a witch who practises black magic in a churchyard at midnight.

She realised suddenly that Piers and Paula were discussing the City. They had discovered friends in common. They had been to the same conferences. In fact, they had probably met before. Their heads drew closer together across the table. Alex reached for the bottle of wine and topped up Emma’s glass and then his own. ‘Lyn loves the children,’ he said softly. ‘And they love her.’

‘No problem.’ Emma took a sip. It was a good wine. ‘I caught her at a bad time.’ She paused. ‘Tell me, is Mike Sinclair a friend of yours?’

Alex put his head to one side. ‘More of an acquaintance.’ He saw Piers turn to listen and hastened to explain. ‘He’s the rector down in Manningtree and Mistley. We’re in a different parish up here, of course. Not that we go, to be honest.’

‘We go at Christmas,’ Paula put in.

‘You’ve met him, have you?’ Alex asked innocently, turning back to Emma. ‘Mike, I mean.’

Emma nodded, squinting into the candlelight. ‘I liked him. I told him I wouldn’t be one of his flock, but yesterday we met in the village and he bought me a coffee.’

‘Good-looking, is he?’ Piers challenged.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, he is.’

‘And not married, either,’ Paula added. ‘The ladies of the parish flutter as he walks about.’

The two men guffawed. ‘He’s probably gay,’ Piers put in. ‘Clergymen usually are these days, aren’t they?’

‘No, they’re not!’ Emma was surprised to hear herself sound quite heated. ‘And he didn’t seem gay to me. Not at all.’

‘So, he obviously made an impression.’ It was Paula’s turn to laugh. ‘I don’t blame you. I’m on one of his children’s committees when I have time to go and he is a decent man. Very genuine, and no, not gay. But he has got this dreadful lay reader person who follows him everywhere. She never lets another woman near him.’ She chortled. ‘Sheepdog syndrome. Are you a churchgoer, Piers?’

He shook his head. ‘Not my scene, I’m afraid.’

‘So you don’t believe in ghosts either, then?’

He shook his head again. ‘Don’t tell me this house is haunted?’

‘No.’ Paula laughed. ‘But yours is. Liza’s. You must have heard about the ghost?’

‘The house isn’t mine, it’s Emma’s,’ Piers put in quietly. ‘I am just visiting.’

‘Oh.’ Paula frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you two were an item.’

Emma glanced at Piers. ‘Not any more,’ she said softly.

‘Well, anyway. Emma won’t be so alone if she has a ghost, will she?’ Paula’s voice was over-bright.

‘Paulie, no. Not now.’ Alex frowned.

‘Why not? People love to hear they’re living in a haunted house.’ Paula stood up and began collecting plates.

‘Not necessarily, if they live there alone,’ Emma said quietly. She laughed and shook her head, firmly suppressing the memory of Flora’s warning only the day before. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so pathetic.’

‘It didn’t. It sounded heartfelt.’ Alex pushed back his chair. ‘Don’t worry. There is nothing scary in your house. I’ve always thought it had a lovely warm atmosphere.’

‘Considering the ghost was a witch, you mean,’ Paula put in, her voice a whispered tremolo. ‘But, as Alex says, a really nice witch.’

‘Do you know who she was?’ Emma asked. She had reached for the remains of her bread roll and was breaking it into tiny pieces.

‘Liza of course. Surely someone’s told you about her?’ Paula called over her shoulder. She had taken the plates into the kitchen and put them down on the counter. She reappeared and began collecting vegetable dishes. ‘She was burned at the stake on Manningtree Green.’

‘That’s not true.’ Alex put his hand over Emma’s wrist for a second, staying her restless fingers amongst the crumbs.

‘I know.’ She nodded. ‘I have been doing my research. She would have been hanged at Chelmsford after a proper trial.’

‘Proper?’ Paula was indignant. ‘Weren’t they tortured?’

Emma nodded. ‘They were. But once they appeared before the magistrates everything was done according to the law.’ She shrugged.

‘Have you seen her?’ Piers raised an eyebrow.

Emma shook her head.

‘Let me take that roll away.’ Alex gently extricated it from her agitated fiddling. ‘As I said, that is a happy house and always has been. The ghosts, if there are any, are in Manningtree. They’ve been filming at the corner shop in Church Street. A TV documentary, I hear. They were talking about it in the deli. The girl who works in the shop says Mike Sinclair went in to exorcise the ghost and came out with his hair standing on end.’ He chuckled, distributing fresh plates. ‘I forgot to ask him about it. Now, that does sound exciting.’

‘And a load of rubbish if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Piers put in. ‘It’s wrong to wind people up about ghosts. It scares them.’

‘I hope you don’t think it scares me!’ Emma frowned at him.

‘It might. On your own up that lane in the dark. No one for miles. It would scare me.’

‘Well, not me. Not if it’s a nice ghost.’ Emma was indignant.

‘Here’s pudding.’ Paula had reappeared with a huge bowl. It was topped with cream and grated chocolate. ‘Trifle. My speciality. Alex does the first courses, I do the pudding.’ She produced a spoon. ‘Two extra plates, Alex, for the kids. We promised. Now,’ she beamed at Emma, ‘can I give you some? You must have given up dieting now you’re a country girl.’

Emma glanced at her, not sure how to take the remark. Was Paula implying that she was fat? She smiled. ‘I’d love some, please.’ She studied Paula’s face through the glare of the candlelight. There was a brittleness of expression there she recognised all too well. Paula was under immense strain, tired, stressed and, she guessed, very unhappy. Poor Alex. She watched him carry two brimming bowls of trifle out to the children. In a few minutes he was back. ‘They’re happy.’

‘What are they watching?’ Emma reached for her spoon.

‘
Babe
. For the thousandth time.’ He slipped into his chair. ‘It’s nearly finished. Then it’s bedtime. I quite like it if they have a late night. It means we get a bit of peace in the morning. And don’t forget, the clocks go back tonight so we get a whole extra hour of bliss.’ He chuckled. ‘Precious, precious Sunday. If Mike Sinclair realised just how precious he’d stop being surprised that no one goes to church.’

‘I don’t think he is surprised,’ Emma said slowly. She was savouring the sweetness of the trifle. ‘When I told him I didn’t go, he didn’t blink an eye. It must be very disheartening, poor chap.’

‘Perhaps he should concentrate on his exorcism techniques and leave honest citizens alone.’ That was Piers.

‘You could get him to come and exorcise Liza’s.’ Paula helped herself to another spoonful of trifle. ‘Then you won’t be scared on dark winter nights.’

‘I’ve already told you, I won’t be scared.’ Emma frowned.

‘Of course you will. You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t,’ Piers put in. ‘Then who’ll be begging to come back to London?’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘I won’t, Piers,’ Emma said softly.

‘Ah.’ Alex looked from one to the other. ‘Do I sense a conflict here? Sorry. Dangerous ground. Shall we change the subject?’