House of Shadows (12 page)

A serious young man with a notepad and pen had joined the group. His name was Colin Sharp, and he had his college scarf slung in a careless fashion around his neck. He never once smiled, though I suppose he thought his work serious enough. He was working for his doctorate in Pharmacology, which seemed to have nothing at all to do with ghost hunting.

There was a collective gasp as lights could be seen flickering across the landing: five distinct lights shrouded in a haze of mist. Mr Bleesdale faltered and stepped back down into the hall. His lady friend gave a little screech and clung to his arm.

Colin Sharp gave a disgusted mutter. ‘Charlatans, frauds, it's a trick to separate you fools from your money. You silly deluded folk don't really believe in ghosts, do you?' He pushed his way up the stairs towards the lights, and when he reached the landing he seemed to be engulfed in the mist, the lights forming a circle around him. The mist grew denser and no one else ventured upstairs.

I was as puzzled as everyone else, and we stood and watched until the mist evaporated and the lights disappeared, and then I heard Mrs Ward shouting for help.

Someone turned the gas lights on, and the one electric light near the front door shed a warm beam into the hallway. The young college student was lying in a heap on the landing, and – with my heart in my mouth – I went up to him. He was pale but breathing, and he seemed to have just fainted, possibly overcome by the beer he'd drunk.

‘Did anyone get a picture?' the colonel demanded, but it seemed no one had. With the help of the men I got Colin back into the library, and someone gave him a sip of brandy.

He opened his eyes. ‘What happened?' he said dimly. ‘Why did I faint away like that? I'm a healthy young man!'

‘It was the ghosts,' the young blonde lady chimed in, her face pale under her make-up. ‘You should never have challenged them.'

‘Don't be silly! What ghosts?' It seemed Colin's memory had been stripped clean of his experiences.

‘Help!' Mrs Ward pushed her way towards me. ‘It's my Rosie! She's in a bad way. Why are you all still fussing round this obviously drunk young man when my Rosie needs a doctor?'

I knew at once that the baby must be coming. Rosie must be even further along than we'd thought. ‘Anyone here a doctor?' I asked, feeling very dramatic. To my surprise, Mr Bravage held up his hand.

‘Will I do, dear lady? I'm retired now, but unless there's anyone else I'll offer my services.'

‘Thank you so much! Will you follow Mrs Ward? She'll take you to Rosie.' I turned to the other guests. ‘Tonight has certainly been very strange, and it's not for me to say what happened here, but I think you all need a drink to settle you down for the night. Please help yourself from the bar.'

The bar was small, newly installed with a few bottles of spirits and a crate of beer under the shelf. I hoped there would be enough to go round. The drink had gone well this evening and would probably be used in a ‘medicinal' way after the events of the night.

I went to Rosie's little bedroom, and she was sitting up against the pillows – apparently as well as I was. ‘What's all the fuss about?' I asked. ‘You seem fine to me.'

‘With respects, miss, you haven't had a baby,' Rosie said. ‘It comes and goes, like, the pains. One minute everything don't hurt, and then the pitchforks of hell are digging into you.'

I looked at Mr Bravage, who appeared unfamiliar in his shirt sleeves.

He nodded, confirming what Rosie had just told me. ‘Perhaps you'll stay and help, Miss Evans?' he said. ‘My . . . er  . . . niece is not very practical at this sort of thing. The sight of blood makes her faint away.'

‘What a surprise!'

My sarcasm was not lost on Mr Bravage. He smiled wryly and said, ‘In this life one takes what one can get, dear lady.'

Rosie seemed to crunch up and began to moan, grasping her stomach for dear life.

‘Easy, child. Just try to go with the pain.' Mr Bravage gently settled Rosie back against the pillows. ‘Conserve your strength, there's a good girl. It may be a few hours yet.'

Rosie looked horrified. ‘Hours! But I can't stand all this torture for hours! What can you give me to ease the pain?'

‘All I have with me is some indigestion tablets.' Mr Bravage stretched out his hands apologetically. ‘I don't carry a bag with me, not any more.'

‘I'll see what I can find,' I said, and with a sigh of relief left the room with Rosie's agonized moans following me.

Beatrice was away on one of her trips, but in her room there might be something we could give Rosie. I felt ill at ease as I mounted the stairs and even worse as I went into Beatrice's room. I hated prying, but I had to help Rosie.

There was a little medicine box beside the bed, and hopefully I opened it. Neatly arranged were some bottles all labelled in fine handwriting. I read them one by one, but there seemed nothing that would help Rosie through the pains of childbirth. In the bottom drawer of the little box, however, there was a bottle of laudanum. I put it in my pocket and hurried to the library to talk to my disoriented guest. He was a pharmacist; perhaps he could help.

‘Colin, how are you feeling?' I asked.

He looked at me blearily. ‘Never better,' he said. He was evidently more than a little drunk.

‘Look –' I showed him the small bottle of laudanum – ‘is this all right to give to someone in childbirth?'

‘Of course, Miss Evans. Laudanum is still being used and will be for some time to come. It is a derivative of opium, you know. Not so potent, but good for toothache or some such thing. Though, I must say, that looks like a very old bottle. Still, it should be all right, I think.'

Reassured, I hurried back to Rosie's room and gave the struggling, red-faced girl a spoonful of laudanum. It seemed to ease the pain, but it made Rosie rather lethargic and sleepy.

‘The contractions are not so intense now,' Mr Bravage said. ‘What was that medicine you gave her, Miss Evans?'

‘Just a painkiller, some laudanum, Colin said it should be all right.'

‘That's not good for this sort of situation. It has slowed down the labour, you see. The more severe the contractions, the sooner the baby is delivered safely into this world.'

‘I'm so sorry.'

I think we all fell asleep for an hour or two because I heard Rosie groan and I woke up with a suddenness that brought me upright in my chair. Mr Bravage was slumped in his chair snoring, and only Mrs Ward was wide awake – her eyes beady like those of a bird as she stared disapprovingly at me.

‘I don't know what you gave my girl, but she's no nearer to giving birth than she was a few hours ago.' I explained to her what Colin had told me, and she shook her head and put the small bottle into her pocket. ‘Well, that was no use.'

The house was silent.
Everyone else must be asleep
, I thought. Not even the ‘ghosts' stirred along the landing as I looked out. The wind had dropped, and a soft rain spattered the windows like gentle tears. I stood at the window and looked towards the barracks; lights were on, and I realized Tom must still be awake.

I went downstairs into the hall and reached for my coat and scarf; a walk in the fresh air would do me good. My head was aching, and I wondered if Rosie would ever have the baby.

In a way, I would be glad when it was all over and the child taken to America. But then Tom would be gone too and with him my hopes and dreams of a future together. Tom had never made any promises, Tom had said nothing at all to give me hope, and yet I knew I hadn't imagined the closeness between us as we'd sat so often under the cloisters in the gardens of Aberglasney.

Tom was in his room poring over a map as if he couldn't wait to get away. I felt hurt and betrayed, although I had no right to feel any of those things.

‘Good evening . . . or is it good morning?' I spoke politely as if to a stranger.

Tom looked at his wrist, at the large watch he wore with the special dials. ‘It's zero four hours,' he said. ‘Four o'clock in the morning.'

‘Rosie's still in labour, if you're interested,' I said briskly. ‘When you leave, I hope you can take the child with you.'

‘Just as well I'm not going just yet then, isn't it?' He smiled, and I was overwhelmed with a sense of relief – and, yes, gratitude.

‘I suppose so.' I stumbled over the words. ‘I suppose Rosie will have to get the baby used to boiled milk or whatever it is they give babies.'

‘What's wrong, Riana? You seemed a little overwrought,' Tom said.

Suddenly, I was insanely furious. ‘Oh, nothing really!' I said in a loud voice. ‘Tonight a man in my party nearly died when we were apparently visited by ghosts, Rosie is about to give birth to a illegitimate baby, and you are sitting calmly down in the barracks not concerning your little self with any part of it!'

‘Come on, Riana, let me pour you some coffee. You should have sent for me. I'd have done all I could to help, you know that.'

I wanted to cry, and I wasn't sure why. I watched, stony faced, as he poured me coffee and then gulped the scalding liquid as if it would take the lump away from my throat.

‘I'll come up to the house with you and see what's happening.' He took my arm, and I put down my coffee quickly, slopping a little on to the table. We walked up through the gardens in silence.

The lights were still on; my guests were still sitting up drinking with no thoughts of going to bed. I couldn't blame them, for the events of the night had been too exciting for them to give up and go to sleep. My ghost-haunting weekend would be more infamous than ever, I realized. I would have to get more help. Mrs Ward couldn't manage it all alone now that Rosie would be laid up for a while.

As we went into the bedroom, I heard the shrill sound of a baby's cry, and then I gasped in astonishment – the baby lying on the sheets was as white-skinned as I was!

Mr Bravage did some medical things to the baby, and then handed the little being to Rosie.

Tom went up to the bed and took Rosie's hand. ‘I think it's time you told us the truth, Rosie.' He spoke firmly, but his voice was kind.

Rosie had tears in her eyes. ‘The baby must be following me, sir. Fair, and all that.'

Tom examined the baby's knuckles and elbows and softly touched the fine golden hair. ‘Rosie, are you sure the boy is Officer Jenkins' son?'

Rosie's voice was bright. She seemed revived, back to her old flirtatious self. This childbirth was a strange experience all right! ‘No, sir, he must be yours.'

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Tom smiled and shook his head. ‘Rosie, you and I both know that's not true, honey. Were you having a relationship with anyone else?'

‘It's yours, sir. Remember that Army Air Force party in early spring? You were the only other one I danced with beside Carl.' Her laugh tinkled out, and it was as though Rosie had been to a party, not gone through hours of gruelling pain.

‘Rosie, stop that at once,' Tom said sternly.

Rosie looked at me. ‘Sorry, miss, I know he's your man and all that, but I couldn't help it. I was so flattered when Mr Tom danced with me and held me close an' all.'

‘Rosie!' Tom sounded exasperated. ‘You can't have a baby just with dancing, you know.'

Blind anger boiled in me. Tom had danced with Rosie, held her close . . . how could he? I didn't wait to hear any more. I ran across the landing and into my bedroom and locked the door behind me. I crept into bed and pulled the blankets up over my face and let the tears flow.

SEVENTEEN

‘
W
hen are you going to do another exhibition for me, dear Riana?' Mr Readings had become far friendlier since the last exhibition, when all but one of my paintings had sold. Now even that one had gone, and I was so pleased. It had been darker than usual, with blues and greens mixed and lots of velvety leaves with just a few purple irises to give a splash of colour.

Mr Readings seemed to read my mind. ‘The last painting of foliage was very good, my dear, but when you put just a touch of ghostliness into the work it sells like hot cakes. Take this one now –' he pointed at my picture of the mansion on fire – ‘it could just be a blaze – very nice colour mix, well lit indeed against the dark skies – but that one solitary indistinct figure on the roof makes it so much more than just a house in flames . . . do you see what I mean?'

‘I do see what you mean,' I said and meant it. I knew full well that my ghostly pictures had set a new trend of realism with just a touch of the unreal or ‘other world' as Mr Readings liked to call it.

‘You've hit on something there, Riana. Don't let it go, whatever you do. Somehow the inspiration you show when you paint the “other world” brings life to the work. The painting is so much finer for it. I can't explain it any better than that. It's as if someone else guides your hand.' He shrugged. ‘But isn't that the way with most creative people? The spirit moves, and we react to it.'

He laughed at his own joke, but to me it wasn't a joke it was true. Just as Mr Readings said, it was as if someone guided my hand. Suddenly, I was afraid. What if the guiding hand went away? What if I couldn't really paint?

‘Well, Riana, when can you have another exhibition ready?'

‘I don't know, Mr Readings. When the spirit moves me, I suppose.' I couldn't help smiling, and he smiled back at me. He really was a very handsome man – humorous, too, now that I knew him better.

While in town I bought a new batch of paints, some canvases and a sketch pad. It all cost money, but these, I reminded myself, were the tools of my trade. I packed them away in my van, and then I went to find a nice cup of tea and somewhere to sit for a few minutes while I tried to make a list of things I wanted for the house.