Barbara Erskine - Midnight is a Lonely Place

‘I’ve come for the solitude.’ Kate smiled at him. ‘I really don’t want to be rushing up and down. I’ll lay in some stores at the nearest shop and then I’d like to cut myself off from the world for a bit.’ The thought excited her. The great emptiness of the country after London, the sharp, clean air as she had climbed out of the car, had heightened her anticipation.

‘You’ll be doing that all right. Especially if the weather is bad,’ Roger gave a snort which might have been a laugh. ‘There is a telephone over there, however. You might find you’re glad of it after a bit, but if you want peace you’d better keep the number quiet.’ He looked up as the door opened.

‘All loaded.’ Bill grinned at them. ‘I think what I’ll do, if you don’t mind, Kate, is begin to make my way back to my place. It’s quite a walk from here. I’ll leave you to Greg and I’ll wander over tomorrow morning if that’s all right. Then I can show you the way back on foot in daylight, and perhaps we can have a drink together before you drop me off in Colchester to catch the train for London.’

The Land Rover’s headlights lit up the trees with an eerie green light as they lurched slowly away from the farmhouse into the darkness. Kate found herself sliding around on the slippery, hard seat and she grabbed frantically at the dash to give herself something to hold on to, with a worried thought for the computer stored somewhere in the back.

‘Sorry. Am I going too fast?’ Greg slowed slightly. He glanced at her. He had already taken note of her understated good looks. Her hair was mousy but long and thick, her bones good, her clothes expensive, but he got the feeling she wasn’t much interested in them. The undeniable air of chic which clung to her was, he was fairly sure, achieved by accident rather than design and the thought annoyed him. It seemed unfair that she should have so much. ‘I take it you’re not the nervous type. I can’t think of many women who would want to live out here completely alone in the middle of winter.’

Kate studied his profile in the glow of the dashboard lights. ‘No. I’m not the nervous type,’ she said. ‘I enjoy my own company. And I’ve come here to work. I don’t think I’ll have time to feel lonely.’

‘Good. And you’re not afraid of ghosts, I hope.’

It had been Allie’s idea, to attempt to scare her away with talk of ghosts. It was worth a try. At least until he thought of something better.

‘Ghosts?’

‘Only joking.’ His eyes were fixed on the track ahead. ‘This land belonged once to a Roman officer of the legion, Marcus Severus Secundus. There’s a statue of him in Colchester Castle. A handsome bastard. I like to think he strolls around the garden sometimes, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen him.’ He grinned. Not too much too fast. The woman wasn’t a fool. Or the nervous type, obviously. ‘I’m sure he’s harmless.’ He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the track.

Beside him Kate smiled. Her excitement if anything increased.

The cottage when it appeared at last seemed to her delight to be a miniature version of the farmhouse. It had pink walls and creeper and was, she could see in the headlights as they pulled up facing it, a charmingly rambling small building with a peg-tiled roof and smoking chimney. Beyond it she could see the dull gleam of the sea between towering banks of shingle. Leaving the headlights on, Greg jumped down. He made no effort to help her, instead going straight round to the rear of the vehicle, leaving her to struggle with the unfamiliar door handle. When she at last managed to force the door open and jump down, he straightened, his hair streaming into his eyes in the wind. Before she realised what he was doing, he threw a bunch of keys at her. She missed and they fell at her feet in the dark.

‘Butterfingers.’ The mocking words reached her through the wind. ‘Go and open the front door, I’ll carry this stuff in for you and then I can get back.’

The door had swollen slightly with the damp and she found she had to push it hard to make it open. By the time she had done it Greg was standing impatiently behind her, his arms full of boxes. She scrabbled for a light switch and found it at last. The light revealed a small white-painted hall with a staircase immediately in front of her and three doors, two to the left and one to the right.

‘On the right,’ Greg directed. ‘I’ll dump all this for you and you can sort it out yourself.’

She opened the door. The living room, low-ceilinged and heavily beamed like its counterpart in the farmhouse, boasted a sofa and two easy chairs. In the deep fireplace a wood burning stove glowed quietly, warming the room. The other three walls each had a small-paned window, beyond which the black windy night was held at bay by the reflection of the lamp as she switched it on. She crossed and drew the curtains on each in turn. By the time she had finished Greg had brought in another pile of stuff.

‘Well, that’s it,’ he said at last. He had made no attempt to tidy it or distribute things for her. All were lumped together in a heap in the middle of the rug. ‘If you need anything you can tell us tomorrow.’

‘I will. Thank you.’ She gave him a smile.

He did not respond. With a curt goodnight he turned and ducked out of the front door, pulling it closed behind him. Resisting a childish urge to run to the window and watch him leave she saw the glow of the headlights brighten the curtains for a moment as they swept across them, then they disappeared. She was alone.

Walking out into the hall she pulled the door bolt across and then turned back. The sudden wave of loneliness in the total silence was only to be expected. She sighed, looking round. Somehow she had expected that Bill would be with her this first evening. Or that the new landlord would invite her over for supper.

It had all been such a rush up until now. The packing, the storing of her stuff, borrowing books from the London Library, arranging her new life, separating herself from Jon; she had had little time to think and she had welcomed her exhaustion each evening. It meant she did not dwell on things. Here there would be plenty of time to dwell unless she was very careful. She straightened her shoulders. There would also be plenty of time to work, but first she would explore her new domain.

The cottage was very small. Downstairs there was only the one living room with a small kitchen and even smaller bathroom next to it. Upstairs there were two bedrooms, almost identical in size. Only one had a bed. In that room someone had made an attempt at cosiness. There was a chest of drawers and a small Victorian chair upholstered in rubbed gold velvet, with a couple of soft cushions tossed onto it. There was a new rug on the sloping floor and a wardrobe, which touched the low beamed ceiling. Inside was a row of wire hangers. Kate went downstairs again. Her initial excitement and sense of adventure was slipping away. The silence oppressed her. Taking a deep breath she went into the kitchen and reached for the kettle. While it boiled she lugged her two suitcases upstairs and left them. She would hang up the dresses and two skirts which she had brought with her later. All her other clothes – jeans, trousers, sweaters – she could stuff into the small chest of drawers tomorrow. She did not feel like unpacking this evening.

After sorting out some of her books and papers, stacking them all neatly on the table in the living room, and putting the food and the bottle of Scotch she had brought with her into the kitchen cupboards she felt too tired to do any more. She made herself some tea, selected a couple of tapes and sat down, exhausted, on the sofa near the fire, her feet curled up under her. Her hands cupped around the mug, she sat listening to the strains of Vaughan Williams on her cassette player, strangely aware of the giant heave and swell of the sea outside beyond the shingle bank, even though she could not hear it.