Barbara Erskine - Hiding From the Light

‘Oh, that’s awful.’ Emma stood up. ‘Is that her I saw upstairs?’ Suddenly she was shivering violently.

‘You saw something?’ Colin stared at her. ‘A psychic, eh? Bloody hell! And you’ve only been here two minutes! Well, perhaps we can use you to entice the ghosts out for us.’

‘I don’t think so!’ Emma shuddered. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, it was my imagination.’

Mark grinned. ‘You’ve gone quite white. There’s nothing to be scared of – not in broad daylight.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘As you say it was probably a trick of the light. The trouble is, once stories like this one start going round they take off like wildfire, then everyone who sees a shadow thinks it’s a ghost, and then it’s hard to separate out the objective from the subjective from the downright lies. Although as Colin says, there seems to be so much round here that’s quite sinister, almost as though –’ He paused and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. There’s a sort of evil ambience about this place. Not just the shop, but this whole area.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Odd, when it’s all so pretty. Sorry. Take no notice. We’re going to be very objective about this, aren’t we, Col? We’re conducting interviews over the next week or so and of course we’ll be filming in here day and night. It’s a good opportunity while the shop is empty. They’re arranging yet another short let and once that’s under way we won’t be able to get in.’

Emma shook her head. ‘Well, you certainly have an intriguing job! I suppose this is for the telly?’

‘It certainly is.’ Mark nodded.

‘I shall look forward to seeing it.’ She hesitated. ‘It feels really spooky up there, whatever it was I saw.’

Mark and Colin exchanged glances. ‘I think so,’ Mark said quietly.

‘I try not to.’ Colin grinned affably. ‘I don’t want my hand shaking while I’m filming.’ He paused, his head on one side. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy being in the film? You could regale us with what you saw just now.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘OK.’ He grinned. ‘Worth a try. Here, have some more cake.’

Laughing, she shook her head. ‘I must go.’ Gathering up her bag and map, she picked up the bunch of keys. ‘Thank you for your hospitality. Perhaps if I buy my cottage I’ll see you around?’

Mark shrugged. ‘Maybe. Good luck with the viewing. I hope it is all you dreamed of.’ His gaze followed her to the door. Turning to raise a hand in farewell as she closed it behind her she didn’t see the wistful appreciation in his eyes or hear Colin’s resigned chuckle. ‘Give up, Mark! She’s gone.’

Emma remembered Mark’s final words as she drew up outside the cottage and switched off the car engine. Dozing in the sun behind its curtain of roses it was pink-washed with black beams. Half the roof was thatched, the other half roofed in old lichen-covered tiles and it stood sideways to the lane at its junction with a smaller, narrower road heading off into the country, set well back behind a wall of overgrown garden. She climbed out of the car and for a moment stood still, just staring. It was enchanting.

The gate was broken, the once-black paint peeling off in brittle flakes, looking too frail to touch. She was reaching out to push it open when she became conscious suddenly that someone was watching her. She turned round. A young woman was standing a hundred yards away holding a bicycle, staring at Emma with undisguised hostility. As she saw Emma spot her, she climbed onto the bike and pedalled off. Emma shrugged and turned back to the gate. If someone else had wanted to buy the cottage they presumably had had time by now to do something about it. So why should they resent someone looking at the place? Cautiously pushing the gate back on its hinges she let herself into the garden. The flowerbeds were alive with bees and butterflies, a mosaic of bright scented colour. It was the cottage of her childhood memories, her fantasies, of the dream she only hazily recalled. The woman in the lane was already forgotten. Taking a step forward, she stopped again. It was strange. Although as far as she knew she had never set foot inside the gate, she did seem to know it all so well. She knew where each flowerbed lay, beneath the tangle of untended shrubs and weeds, she knew where the pump handle was, to the side of the front door, she remembered the medlar tree and the mulberry and the blackthorn and the pear in the hedge, the apples in the back garden and the circular beds separated with large round lumps of stone and flint.

Shaking her head she sniffed and she realised suddenly to her astonishment that she was crying. Brushing her cheek with the back of her hand she took a few slow paces towards the door. Only then did she realise that she had been so eager to climb out of the car and look at the house that she had left the keys on the passenger seat. Retracing her steps, she found them. There were six on the bunch. Two front door keys, a back door key and three shed keys. Selecting the most likely with a shaking hand, she inserted it into the lock. It clicked back easily and she found herself pushing the door open. But she already knew, without having set foot inside, that she was going to buy this house, whatever the cost, financially or emotionally. She couldn’t live without it.

In the excitement of the moment she did not give Piers a thought.

The hall was dark. It smelled of rich, sun-warmed wood and dust. She stepped over the pile of circulars and junk mail on the mat and stood, holding her breath.

Welcome home, Emma .

The voice in her head was quiet, but clear. The same voice that she had heard in the shop, surely, but this time it wasn’t frightening. It was warm. Enticing. It enfolded her.

She smiled and took a step forward.

I have waited a long time for you to come, my dear .

She frowned. And in spite of herself she shivered. It was her imagination, of course it was, but just for a moment it sounded as though the voice came from outside herself. She glanced round nervously. It was Mark and Colin’s fault, with all their talk of ghosts. How silly. There was no one there. No one at all.

This is your house now, Emma. Yours and mine. We’re going to live here together, Emma. You’ll be happy here, Emma .

The voice was inside her head again, almost as though it were part of her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the voice had gone.

‘Is there anyone there?’

Of course there wasn’t. How could there be? She was just being foolish.

There were two downstairs living rooms and a largish kitchen, all heavily beamed. The narrow oak staircase led up from the hall to a landing off which there were three bedrooms, one of which, overlooking the front garden and the lane, was by far the nicest and instantly ear-marked by Emma as her own, and a small bathroom which looked as though it had last been modernised forty years ago. The whole place was dusty and shabby, but it exuded a wonderful feeling of peace and happiness. Upstairs the rooms smelled of flowers. It felt like home.

It is home, Emma!

Again, the strange voice in her head. Seductive. Gentle. Insistent. Her friend.

‘It is, isn’t it!’ Emma smiled as she discovered she had spoken out loud. ‘You’re right, whoever you are. This is home!’

She spent the whole afternoon at the cottage wandering round, sitting in first one room then another, exploring the garden, poking around in the outbuildings, totally and completely happy. The gardens were, if she were completely honest with herself, all that she had ever wanted without even knowing that she harboured any such longing at all: sprawling, untidy, packed with flowers and herbs, begging for someone to come and work on them and love them and coax them back into shape. As she stood at the rear of the cottage, surveying the scene, she could feel every fibre of her being aching to get to work, to plunge her hands into the soil, to pick the few remaining roses and bury her face in the soft damask petals. This place had been a nursery. It had been a business. It would be a way of life to whoever bought it. It could be a herb nursery again. It could be a business again, under her ownership.