Lynne Pemberton - Sleeping With Ghosts

Kathryn felt a comforting return to normality. She had no idea how long she had been there, and was surprised when she returned to her car, to see that it was ten past two. She had been standing by the gate for over half an hour and was going to be late for a two-thirty appointment in Westerham.

As she turned the key in the ignition and drove off, she thought about Ingrid’s insistence at her mother’s funeral, and during three subsequent telephone calls, that it was of the utmost importance they should meet. Kathryn wished she had listened to her first impulse, which was to refuse. She had never liked her Aunt Ingrid, and knew that the feeling was mutual. Ingrid is probably content , thought Kathryn with a smile, now that she’s off-loaded fifty years of repressed emotions on to me.

Kathryn imagined her aunt standing in the same place she had left her, next to the shabby sofa, surrounded by tired furniture, and faded fabric. Alone, except for Sasha, in her dark cottage; alone with her memories, and echoes from the past.

‘Von Trellenberg,’ Kathryn muttered the name under her breath, then elaborated, ‘Klaus Von Trellenberg, aristocrat, Nazi SS officer. Shit ,’ she swore, then again louder, ‘Shit! This is like something out of a bad movie.’ She swerved to overtake a lorry, slamming on her brakes to avoid colliding with an oncoming car. With the sound of its horn blaring in her ears, she slowed down, forcing herself to concentrate on her driving.

Over and over, Kathryn told herself that her grandfather was dead, or so Ingrid had said. It all happened long before she was born, she reminded herself, and there was no evidence that Klaus Von Trellenberg had committed any crime, well none that she knew of; yet the grim reality that he had been a high-ranking SS officer remained, and with it an isolated fragment of fear.

Why had Ingrid wanted to put her in the picture, Kathryn wondered. Was there some good reason apart from the fact that she was a bitter old woman with a twisted sense of duty, who simply thought her niece should know the truth? Or was it a final act of revenge on the sister Ingrid had always detested? Kathryn toyed with the hope that Ingrid had lost her mind and that the entire revelation suggested the ramblings of senility.

She clung so hard to this hope that she almost missed the turning to Fallowfields, the house where she had been born, and had lived for the first eighteen years of her life. Her thoughts drifted back down the winding pathway to her childhood, cosseted in rural English country life with Freda, the mother who had baked cakes for church fêtes, taken her to the pony club, and watched her compete in local gymkhanas. Freda, who had grown prize-winning flowers, and had been a pillar of Kent society. With a short laugh Kathryn imagined the face of Mrs June Burrows, her late mother’s closest friend and chairman of the local townswomen’s guild, if she told her at the next committee meeting that Freda de Moubray’s father had been an SS officer.

When Kathryn pulled up in front of the house, she saw a young man poised in the act of ringing the doorbell. Stepping out of her car, she walked towards him, fixing a bright, determined smile on her face, recalling something her ex-husband Tony had said to her the first night they’d met. ‘If you’re smiling, the whole world will think you’re winning.’ The thought made her smile widen, as she held out her hand in greeting.

‘You must be Mr Grant, the estate agent?’ Kathryn stood in front of him. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

The man nodded, coal-black eyes peering from behind the half-moon spectacles decorating his thin, white face.

It hadn’t been a particularly good morning for Oliver Grant. In fact it had not started well, and had got progressively worse. His car had broken down, the train had been late, he had lost an important sale an hour earlier, and now he had been standing in the hot sun for the last fifteen minutes positive the next client was not at home. His voice, when he eventually found it, was deliberately clipped.

‘Are you—’

‘Kathryn de Moubray,’ she supplied, walking smartly past him. ‘Please come in.’

Oliver rejoined her in the hall, where he held out a long thin hand, the parchment colour of its skin broken by a clump of densely black hair. ‘Oliver Grant of Brinkforth and Sons.’

Kathryn smiled politely again, her unusual dark, almost charcoal-grey, eyes shining.

Bloody attractive girl , Oliver thought, and about to come into some money. He decided to be nice, Turn on the charm, old boy , he told himself, you never know your luck. ‘OK, Miss de Moubray, to work. First I need the dimensions of all the rooms.’

‘Follow me,’ Kathryn invited, leading the way down the gloomy hall.

Their feet made little sound on the carpeted floor, dark brown and threadbare in several places. The walls were decorated in a sombre beige-and-tan striped wallpaper, with a faded floral border at the skirting and a dado. Grant scribbled notes, muttering encouraging comments under his breath, as they entered the dining room.

‘We always ate in here before my father left,’ Kathryn explained. ‘Of course after that, my mother ate less and less.’

She stopped speaking abruptly, her attention diverted to a watercolour on the wall behind the estate agent. It depicted a fishing village in Provence. Her father had bought it from a street vendor on their first family holiday in France.

‘I really have no idea why my mother kept that horrible painting.’ The comment held a hint of apology.

Glancing at the watercolour, the estate agent was forced to agree. It was dreadful, but he thought better than to pursue the subject so he changed it.

‘Fallowfields is typical of most houses built in this area during the twenties. Red brick, and timber façade, three to four beds, a couple of acres. Three reception rooms, substantial kitchen, inglenook fireplace. A good solid family house.’

This was delivered in estate-agent speak. If he had been completely honest, which he wasn’t because it didn’t come with the job, he would’ve said that he found the mock Tudor architecture extremely ugly, the rooms dark and pokey, and decorated with morgue-like taste. The owner had obviously hated colour; one shade of dull brown was mixed with another shade of duller brown.

As if reading his mind, Kathryn announced with emotion, ‘I hate this house.’

This statement appeared to surprise the estate agent. ‘I must admit it’s not exactly to my taste either; I’m more of a period sort of chap myself, if you know what I mean.’

Kathryn was scanning the room, gazing on the Spartan effects, and shabby decor, with obvious distaste. ‘I’ve taken a few personal items, the rest of the furniture you can sell.’

She saw that his eyes had followed hers and settled on a photograph of her mother taken when Freda had first come to England, a distinct look of uncertainty on her unsmiling face. ‘My mother was German you know,’ Kathryn provided.

‘Uh huh,’ Oliver nodded slowly, his face adopting a ‘Well, that answers everything’ sort of look. His glasses slipped an inch down his nose, he pushed them firmly back into place before saying, ‘I heard about your mother’s tragic car crash. Nasty business. I’m sorry.’

Her eyes did not waver from Freda’s photograph when she said, matter-of-fact, ‘My mother died a long time ago, so don’t be.’

A short nervous cough covered the estate agent’s embarrassment. He averted his gaze.

‘Come along, Mr Grant, we’re not finished yet,’ she said in a brighter voice.

Following her out of the living room, he trudged up a narrow staircase. He fixed his eyes on the smooth orb of her left buttock; it was the closest one to him, the panty line clearly visible beneath her tight denim jeans. He wondered if she wore lacy, see-through panties – the type he ogled in magazines. By the time they had reached the top of the stairs he was contemplating asking Kathryn if she was busy next Saturday. It was the annual dinner dance at his cricket club. Oliver was certain she would enjoy it, he always did.