Joan Smith (2 page)

The rest of the downstairs consisted of a small dining room and a kitchen that might have come off the ark. The sink, as far as I could tell, was made of stone. The countertops were wood with red linoleum nailed down roughly on top. The floor was covered with the same liver red linoleum. But the kitchen had cupboards with bright, mismatched dishes behind glass doors, and an electric stove of ancient vintage.

Mollie peered to see how an American, with our well-known love of modern cons, took to this primitive room. “It’s not so bad,” I said. At least it was clean. “I’m looking forward to foraging for veggies and herbs in the garden out back.”

Mollie gave me a very queer look. “You mentioned a garden,” I said. Imagination had done the rest. I pictured an old-style knot garden. I could almost smell the sage and thyme.

“That was the other house, Belle. But this place has a garden, too. Shall we go upstairs?”

I turned left and opened a plain wooden slab door on to a dark, narrow stairway.

“That’s right, dear. Just go along up those stairs,” Mollie said. “Best leave the door open. It’s dark.”

Enough light came from both below and above to show rough plastered walls and uncarpeted stairs. She didn’t ask me how I knew that door led to the stairs, but I felt she must be curious. “I didn’t see any stairs in the front hall,” I said. “I figured they must lead off the kitchen.”

“Yes. This little cottage was built for an old retainer of the Comstocks’. They didn’t waste any luxury on a servant.”

“It’s a funny name—Chêne Mow.”

“There used to be a hawk coop here. That’s what a mow is. It used to be called a mew. And
c
hê
ne
is French for oak. The royal stables at Charing Cross were built on the site of an old hawk mew. They went on calling it the mews, and the name spread to other stables. Nothing ever quite dies in England; it just becomes something else.”

At the top of the stairs, a narrow hall was lit by a window at the near end. At the far end there was a door, with another door on either side halfway down the hall. Mollie led me toward the door at the end. "This is the master bedroom,” she said, flinging open the little white-paneled door. “It runs along the whole width of the house at front. You'll want it for yourself, of course. It has a view of the road.”

I felt a strange reluctance to follow her into the room, but shook the feeling away. Two windows looked out on the road. The view from one of them was blocked by a gnarled old oak tree. At some time in the past the rough walls had been covered with blue wallpaper sprinkled with white blossoms. The uneven walls made the paper bumpy. A scattering of mismatched furniture lent the room a haphazard look. There was an old blue nylon flowered carpet on the floor.

In one corner of the room, though, I spotted a lovely antique lady’s toilet table. It was apple green, with hand-painted pink flowers and white porcelain knobs. Its elegance was out of joint with the rest of the furnishings. Something in the room repelled me. I felt cold right through to my bones. Blue is a cold color, and that shaded window didn’t help.

“Let’s see the yellow room,” I said.

Again I had that strange feeling that Mollie was smiling at me, though her lips didn’t move. “Yes, let’s see it,” she said, and stood aside for me to go out first.

I opened the hall door on my left and stepped into a smaller but brighter room finished with wood paneling, painted a yellow that had darkened with time to a dull mustard shade. The furnishings were old, simple, but quite beautiful. A spool bed with a patchwork quilt, an oak dresser with a rounded front, a cheval glass in one corner, and one narrow window with a view of Chêne Bay towering above us.

"Yes, this is more like it!” I exclaimed.

“It’s not nearly as big as the blue room. The last owner cut the end off this room to make the bathroom.”

“It’s big enough for me. Let’s see the other bedroom.”

We went into the last room. It was whitewashed, with bunk beds and a matching varnished dresser, circa 1950. “The last people that stayed here had kids,” Mollie said. “That was when the bunk beds were put in.”

“I don’t need two spare rooms. I’ll sign the papers now,” I said, and we went back downstairs to the sitting room to sign the rental contract and arrange the traveler’s checks.

“Getting your groceries will be a bit of a problem when you don’t have a car,” Mollie pointed out.

“I’ll rent one for the summer."

“That’s no problem then. There’s a car rental in Lyndhurst. Why don’t you drive back with me, and you can pick up a few groceries?”

“That’s a good idea. Thanks, Mollie. I’ll get my luggage out of your car first.”

She helped me bring it in, handed me the big brass key, and I locked the door with a proprietary feel. As we drove back into Lyndhurst, Mollie explained that the phone and hydro were included in the rent. Since the cottage was often rented for only a week or two at a time to tourists, this was the most convenient way to handle it.

She went with me into the car rental agency. After I had hired myself a white Morris Mini that was a replica of her own, but newer, she said, “How would you like a nice cuppa before you start your shopping?”

“A good idea. I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“The Pig and Whistle’s your best bet,” she advised. “You can get a nice ploughman’s lunch and a pint at the pub for a couple of quid.”

Mollie had the bread and cheese; I opted for a steak-and-kidney pie and a pint of ale, and felt I was seeing the real England. The windows of the pub were so old and thick and irregular, you could hardly see through them. A couple of elderly men were playing darts at the back of the room.

As Mollie sipped her second pint, she said in a tentative way, "What you said back at Chêne Mow, dear, about being interested in the psychic world..."

“I’d love to hear about it sometime.”

I meant to listen with an open mind. A person’s beliefs aren’t, or shouldn’t be, a subject for mockery. I had never taken that sort of thing seriously, but as Mollie seemed intelligent and was obviously sincere, I did her the courtesy of trying to understand.

“There is so much out there that people just ignore,” she said, gesturing vaguely into the air with one shapely hand. “We—I belong to a group—try to tune into the wisdom of the universe, to read the messages that are all around us.”

“What sort of messages? ESP, do you mean?”

“They might be messages from someone near and dear who is in trouble. You’ve heard of that sort of thing. A mother who knows instinctively when her child is in danger. Or it might be messages from the other side. That’s a little more difficult. We have séances."

I thought of my father and felt a tremor of interest. "Anything else?” I asked.

“We’re into healing with herbs, too, but mainly we work on developing our psychic powers. I often know what people are thinking. I knew you would take Chêne Mow, as soon as you saw it. I could feel a warm emanation from you, like the blast of a furnace. Why did you want the cottage, Belle?”

“I just liked the looks of it. Really.”

“I see.” She nodded, but I felt she didn’t believe me. She continued talking about her group.

“It sounds interesting,” I said. “Could I meet some of the other members?”

She smiled softly. “I sensed you were one of us. You have the power. You felt something in the blue bedroom, didn’t you? I felt it myself, a definite presence. And you knew the other room was yellow, and about the knot garden. You’re definitely psychic,” she said firmly.

I shook my head. “I’d just been visiting some of the stately homes. One of them had an Elizabethan knot garden. That’s where that idea came from. I’ve never had a single extrasensory experience in my life, Mollie. I never know when people are going to call, or sense that someone is in trouble, or dead. You know, the sort of thing you read about.”

“You have to work at it. I daresay Leonardo wouldn’t have painted the
Mona Lisa
if he’d never practiced. Any talent has to be exercised to reach its full potential.”

“I’m not really interested in becoming a psychic,” I insisted. “What I actually had in mind was maybe incorporating it into a book I’m writing. Would you object to that?”

“Not in the least. I’ll tell you what, come to the meeting with me tonight, and you can meet some of the others. We’re having a séance at Thorndyke’s farm. May Day was an important day in England’s past—the fertility festival, you know. Something still lingers in the ether. It should be a good meeting. I’ll pick you up, say, elevenish? The ceremony begins at midnight.”

“I’ll be ready.”

We finished our lunch. Mollie went on to work, and I to buy my groceries and find my way home to Chêne Mow. I felt the whole thing was nonsense,
but interesting nonsense. In my mind, it had about as much to do with reality as my daily horoscope, which I read faithfully but didn’t believe. Still, it would be nice to receive some message from Dad.

Chapter Three

I stowed my groceries in the fridge and hanging cupboards and filled the teakettle. The location of Chêne Mow was somewhat inconvenient, the furnishings a confused jumble, the kitchen downright primitive, so it was hard to understand why I was so pleased with the place. I stood smiling at the plain deal table as I set out a cup and milk, planning to buy a couple of tablecloths to prettify the table. Maybe a blue and white checked gingham. I’d put wildflowers in a vase in the center of the table.

To pass the time until the kettle came to the boil, I wandered out into the garden. It was only an overgrown tangle of flowers, but I had never seen a garden that pleased me more. Pink and white peonies grew waist-high in front of a yew hedge that formed the barrier at the back of the cottage lot. Their heavy heads drooped under the weight of petals. Stalks of delphiniums were in bud but not in bloom. There were sweet peas and big daisies, dianthus, and a delicate, lacy vine, covering any bare patch of earth. Its delicate purple flowers suggested it might be lobelia. A fragrant perfume rose from the flowers, filling my lungs with the very essence of an English garden. I picked a bouquet and went around to the far side of the house.

There, tucked away against the yew hedge, was the Elizabethan knot garden. It was badly overgrown, but the original pattern was still discernible beneath the spreading ivy. The smoky gray of sage formed an X that crisscrossed the area. I recognized clumps of parsley and thyme, of basil and lovage, coriander and rue and mint. A bouquet garni of scents rose up as my ankles brushed the leaves. A bee droned lazily over the thyme. I picked enough parsley to flavor my dinner and add its peppery scent to the bouquet of flowers.

Beyond the hedge, I heard running water, and went to investigate. It was a stream, gliding softly over a floor of pebbles worn smooth by time. Farther up the hill toward Chêne Bay was its source. The stream had been dammed up to create a small lake. As the water flowed in, the lake overflowed to a lower level in a waterfall that lent novelty to the view. The water splashed in the sunlight, tossing crystal droplets into the air.

When I went back inside, the kettle was boiling. I made tea. My mind kept going back to the knot garden. I was pretty sure I had seen a picture of it, or one like it, in a book somewhere. It was probably a common pattern. It didn’t mean anything that I knew how it would look before seeing it.

I put the dishes in the sink and took my bags upstairs to unpack. I took a peek into the blue bedroom. It wasn’t my imagination that caused that chill. The room was at the north end of the house, where it got little sun. It was chilly, and the dark tree at the window didn’t help. The coldness seemed to penetrate through to my bones. I turned and scuttled back to the more cheery yellow room. After unpacking, I filled the tub in the tiny bathroom that had been severed from the yellow bedroom and had a leisurely soak. A shower would have been nice, but I could live without one for the summer. I wondered what a suitable outfit would be for attending a séance. Jeans and a jersey would be comfortable, but Mollie spoke of the séance with almost a religious fervor, and one does not wear jeans to church.

I chose a simple blue cotton dress. Forewarned of England’s chilly evenings, I had brought a few sweaters and a woolen shawl with me. I’d take the shawl. When I was dressed, I went to the dresser to fix my hair and do my face. The loose, natural wave of my reddish-blond hair thrived in England’s moist climate. All I had to do was brush back the bangs and let them tumble forward in waves. I inherited my late mother’s blue eyes, pale complexion, and small, pointed chin. The only thing I inherited from my father was my tall, lean build. Seeing those blue eyes reminded me of Mom. She had died of a heart attack three years before. If she had still been alive, Dad’s death wouldn’t have hit me so hard. It was the double loss that did me in, and left me feeling betrayed.

When I was ready, I took up the shawl and went downstairs. It was six o’clock but still bright in the lengthening days of spring. I prowled around the house, discovering its secrets. The bookcase held me for an hour, poring over old copies of
Wuthering Heights
and Dickens and the romantic poets. At seven, I made an omelette and toast. After my snack, I began working on
Rebel Heart.

I had brought a portable manual typewriter with me. Using it was like chopping wood after the luxury of the word processor at home, but it was better than writing by hand. I turned on the radio and had the Beatles for background accompaniment while I worked.

I enjoyed the solitude. Sometimes I felt Dad was right there, at my shoulder. There were several interruptions during the evening. At about nine o’clock I heard the first car pass, and saw the headlights moving up the road toward Chêne Bay. Businessmen, I assured myself, and returned to my novel. The car was soon followed by two or three more cars and a couple of trucks. Something to do with the video, I figured. At least there were no sounds of revelry from the big house.

Mollie arrived at ten after eleven. She was bareheaded and wore a loose white dress.