Barbara Erskine - The Ghost Tree

He felt his face colour. That was exactly what he had thought of doing. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to take it, but of one thing he was certain; he had no intention of getting rid of it, not until he had had a chance to work out what it was.

Luckily, April didn’t notice. ‘Do it now,’ she said. ‘This minute. I’ll wait in here.’

‘OK.’ He turned towards the door. ‘And I might be a while. I have to do one or two things while I’m out.’ He didn’t wait to hear if she protested. He was already halfway up the stairs, his car keys in his hand.

It was late afternoon when Ruth went into the dining room and looked at the table with her piles of books, the notebook, the pens aligned neatly beside it, and the brown envelopes full of letters and she felt again that frisson of excitement at the thought of what was in there. Finlay’s abrupt departure had distracted her, but now she had time to start again on her reading and, she realised, she was actually pleased to be alone again. This was the freedom she had craved.

First she unpacked Sally’s books. Ruth pulled the box open and stacked the books on the table with the others. There were volumes on meditation and crystals, on past lives and ghost hunting and, she suddenly noticed, a slim volume, half-hidden between two others. Psychic Self-Defence by Dion Fortune. ‘Oh my God!’ she whispered. She picked it up and stared at it. So her mother had heard of Harriet’s strange magician. Perhaps she had known, too, about Lord Erskine’s alternative career as a spirit guide. She put the book on top of the pile. These books brought her closer in some ways to her mother than anything else she had found. These had been Lucy’s special treasures.

She glanced at the bulging brown envelopes. Letters were special. They were so personal, so immediate. She had already looked at a couple of them, documenting Thomas’s first months in the navy, and now she reached for one of the unopened packets. This wasn’t letters. There were several pieces of paper inside and some small cardboard-covered notebooks. She tipped everything onto the table and shook the envelope to make sure it was empty before picking up one of the notebooks and opening it at the first page.

There was a name scrawled across the top. Catherine Anne. Ruth frowned. The name was familiar. Then she remembered. Wasn’t that the name of her mother’s grandmother? She turned over the first leaf of the small book and found she was staring at a young girl’s diary. A teenager perhaps? The year was 1905. The beautiful, careful writing began neatly and the entries were much like any new diary, detailing a walk through the January woods, a trip to town to buy new boots, a friend’s birthday party. Ruth turned the pages slowly. The entries became more sporadic and less neat. Then came one that caught her eye. It had been scrawled with such force that the pen had blotted and the writing had been underlined so heavily that the paper was torn.

I had the dream again last night. Or what Papa calls the dream. But it isn’t. I know it isn’t. He’s real!!!

Ruth read the words several times then turned the page. The next entry was five days later.

I spoke to Dunc last night and he has seen him too. He said not to tell Papa. As a vicar, he isn’t allowed to believe in ghosts, but Mama sees them too, Dunc is sure of it. And so did Grandmama.

Dunc was her mother’s great uncle, Duncan, killed on the Somme in 1916. She knew that much. The only relation her father had approved of. So, Catherine Anne was his sister. Ruth found herself biting her lip.

There was a gap of several weeks before the next entry.

He came to me again. I don’t know what he is trying to tell me or who he is. I don’t know what to do. D is still away at school and I have no one to tell. I tried to ask Mama, but she pretended not to understand. She looked horrified when I told her and then Papa came in with his Bible under his arm and Mama went to talk to Cook. Papa looked very stern and made me put my hand on the Bible as if it would protect me. He asked me if I was still having bad dreams and I said yes and he patted my shoulder and said we should pray together.

Ruth could feel small shivers of horror and excitement prickling up and down her spine. She looked up at the window; it was very dark outside. She hadn’t realised how late it was getting. Standing up, she went over and pulled the curtains across. Behind her the diary lay in a pool of lamplight on the table.

He still comes to speak to me though I long since stopped trying to tell anyone. He is kind. He knows the future. He tells me that I will marry a handsome man and he smiled as if he knew such things were of importance to young girls. He tells me to listen to my father, that he is a good man and wise and that he only wants the best for me.

Ruth turned the page.

10 December 1912. My 19th birthday. As soon as he heard that he was to receive a living at last, Joseph asked Papa for my hand and Papa agreed. I’m the happiest person in the world. On our return from honeymoon he will be installed in his new church.

There were only two more entries. The first, dated December, 1913.

How strange it is to read this diary now. The day before my marriage and once again I saw my ghostly visitor. He gave me his blessing and told me I would be happy with Joseph. He told me that we would have four children and said I should give them all his name. I pointed out that he had never told me his name. He said he was Thomas Erskine. I told him that I already bore his name, given to me at my baptism, and he smiled and told me that he knew it! I have a little girl of my own now, and to her I have given the family name of Erskine.

Ruth felt she had stopped breathing. Thomas. Her Thomas. But then she had guessed it might be him. The last entry was written after two blank pages and was dated 1916:

Thomas came to me last night. He was gentle and kind and told me Dunc was dead in France. He told me to prepare my parents for the coming news as they would find it hard to bear. How can I prepare them? He told me my children would thrive and live long lives to comfort me and that my parents would find joy in my children. I am broken-hearted. I believe him though even now Mama has written to say she has received a letter from Dunc, dated some weeks ago. He says he is not allowed to say where he is but that he is well. Yet I know it isn’t true …

The remainder of the notebook was empty.

Ruth sat for a long time staring into space then at last she reached for the rest of the papers that had fallen from the envelope. There was the letter sent by Duncan’s commanding officer to his parents, saying he had been fatally wounded after showing exceptional bravery leading his men; there was another giving the date of his death.

There was a copy of her mother’s family tree. She realised there were tears running down her cheeks as she studied the letters and then the notes her mother had drawn up. Ruth ran her finger from the bottom to the top of the page, pausing when she came to her great-grandmother Catherine Anne, the author of the diary, who was born in 1893. Thomas, Catherine’s great-great-grandfather, who had died in 1823, was there, and there above him were lines and lines of names. Her mother had traced her own line of descent from Thomas down through the daughters of the family, every one, save Lucy, married, she noticed, to a man of the cloth. There were other lines of descent, of course there were, the male lines, the direct lines, but this one was hers and Lucy had added Ruth’s name at the bottom of the page. Ruth stared at it incredulously. She was there, but this was a version of herself she had never seen before. Ruth Catherine Erskine Dunbar.