Lynda Plante - The Little One

Kevin knocked on her door and came in to tell her that they were leaving. She shrugged. He didn’t bother to ask if she was all right. She turned away from him, frowning in agitation.

‘I won’t be here when you get back.’

He raised his eyebrows.

‘I’ll go to the manor house, seeing as it’s rightfully mine now. Besides, it’s obvious I’m not welcome here.’

‘Whatever you want. It has always been that way with you anyway.’

He closed the door behind him and joined Alan downstairs.

‘It’s all right. She’s not coming.’

Alan hesitated.

‘Did you tell her?’

‘No. Why should I? It’s got nothing to do with her.’

Barbara watched them leave. Then, turning away from the window, she began to pack her suitcase. She was checking to make sure she’d left nothing behind when the telephone rang. By the time she picked up the receiver it had gone on to voicemail.

It felt odd to hear the sound of Mike Phillips’s voice again.

‘Kevin, just wondering how soon you’ll be able to get the funeral pictures to me. Plenty of shots of the actors at the graveside, yes? And tell Alan I’ll need his article as soon as possible. I want lots of stuff about his time working with Margaret.’

‘You two-faced bastard,’ Barbara hissed.

The call made up her mind: she would definitely go to the cemetery.

Beside Margaret’s open grave, next to the one holding her beloved Armande, was the headstone for her sister, Julia. There were fresh white lilies in an ornate vase there, but on the stone there was no mention of her young daughter.

Barbara took up her position, hiding behind a large marble angel. Margaret’s funeral procession was heading through the cemetery gates. The hearse was covered in hundreds of lilies.

She watched all the actors following the hearse. She could see Kevin turn to wag his finger at a number of photographers. As he headed back to the others, he had to pass within feet of Barbara.

He was shocked when she dived out from behind the angel.

‘I know what you’re doing. You disgust me. All the fuss about me writing about Margaret and you’re doing it yourself.’

He took hold of her arm.

‘Let go of me,’ she shouted.

Everyone turned as Kevin pushed her away. She stumbled and fell, bursting into tears. She remained curled up on the ground.

As the coffin was slowly lowered into the grave, the minister began to read from his Bible.

People threw furtive glances towards Barbara as she got to her feet, dusting down her skirt. Then it happened.

At first Barbara was unsure. Maybe she had touched the cold marble angel. But that was some distance away. Then she felt it, a small icy-cold hand holding hers. She tried to shake it away.

‘Can we go home now?’

The voice was high-pitched, like a child’s. She felt the tiny cold hand grip tightly, pulling her forward. Barbara’s heart began to pound in her chest.

‘Go away,’ she said, trying to release her hand.

‘No, I won’t. You promised to take care of me.’

Barbara wondered if she was going mad. This couldn’t be happening.

The little voice continued, ‘Your suitcase. Pick up your suitcase.’

Barbara snatched it up and the child broke free. She saw her then. It was Emily, the little girl in the photograph at the manor house.

Barbara glanced towards the mourners. Could they see the child? But they were all turned towards the grave as the minister closed his Bible.

‘Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.’

No sooner than the image of Emily materialized, it faded. Barbara ran from the cemetery. Her heart was still pounding as she hurried past the gathered reporters.

Felicity watched Barbara’s hasty exit and said quietly to Alan, ‘I’ve just had a really strange flashback. Real déjà vu.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was here with Margaret when she buried her sister and something very peculiar happened. Margaret was standing next to me and suddenly she was really freaked out. I wasn’t sure what to do. She started talking loudly and behaving oddly. Then she turned and ran away.’

‘Well, it’s understandable. First her husband and then her sister, and wasn’t her young niece also killed in the accident?’

‘Yes, but she never came back for drinks at my house. I’d arranged for everyone to be there. She returned to the manor house and I didn’t really see her again until we all went there last month.’

Felicity held on to Alan’s arm.

‘It’s funny. She never put the little one’s name on her sister’s grave. Emily, I think it was.’

Alan was not really listening to her any longer. He was eager to keep up as people began to leave.

‘The way Barbara behaved just then, shaking her hand. That was exactly how Margaret acted. And that was the last we saw of her.’

Barbara was still very shaken when she caught a bus to Waterloo. But by now she was certain that she’d imagined it. She must have become wound up about not being invited to the service.

Standing on the platform, she became so agitated that people round about kept their distance. As the train came into the station, she began to panic, muttering and talking aloud to herself. She suddenly recalled the moment when she’d been at the manor house and had felt someone pushing her down the stairs.

She tried to remember exactly what the detective had said. That a witness was sure Margaret had been pushed under the train. But that wasn’t possible, as no one was standing close enough.

Barbara took deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. Passengers were shooting wary glances in her direction.

She shouted, ‘What are you looking at me for?’

As the train pulled out, she literally jumped when her mobile rang.

It was Mr Sullivan to say that if she required immediate funds he would be able to release a few thousand pounds.

‘Thank you. That would be really helpful. In fact, I hope it’s all right but I’m on my way to the manor house now.’

Mr Sullivan ummed and ahhed, but eventually said it would be fine.

Barbara paused. ‘One more thing. I was so stunned at the time I don’t really remember. As well as the house, exactly how much money will I inherit?’

‘Miss Reynolds had accounts containing around three-quarters of a million pounds.’

‘Three-quarters of a million,’ she breathed.

By the time the train pulled into the local station, it was getting dark. Barbara was very buoyant, smiling at the ticket collector as she made her way out to the car park. The Land Rover was where she had left it, keys hidden away as before.

As she headed for the manor house she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. Three-quarters of a million! She was brimming over with ideas for redecorating, making the sombre house lighter. She would get some nice sofas, make the place feel lived in. By the time she’d driven ‘home’, she was still buzzing.

She hesitated for a moment before she went into the oak-panelled hall. She would light a big fire. Make herself something to eat. In the morning she would take a tour of the entire house.

She tried the light switch by the open kitchen door. It clicked, but still nothing happened. She’d check out the generator tomorrow. By now she was familiar with the kitchen. She lit candles, then took some kindling and logs. She was pleased with herself. She was becoming very adept at fire-lighting.

Humming to herself, she went into the larder and chose a tin of chicken soup.

‘Hello.’

Barbara froze.

‘I’ve been waiting ages for you.’

The little girl was standing barefoot at the kitchen door. She had curly blonde hair and a sweet, angelic face. Dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, she looked much happier than she had at the cemetery.