Authors: Pamela Oldfield
‘Well, she did! That’s all I can say.’ Georgina noticed the catch in her voice and counted to ten. She marvelled that Ida could not hear the thumping of her sister’s heart.
‘He asked me if Leonora and Neil had quarrelled.’
‘I don’t think so but Leonora
had
tried to stir up trouble between me and my son.’ Georgina watched impatiently as her sister spread the cream and decorated the cream with glacé cherries. ‘What no one understands is that that woman was a born trouble maker – a beautiful but dangerous trouble maker.’
‘If you say so, Georgie. I hardly knew her.’
‘You were fortunate! What else did he ask?’
Ida shrugged. ‘I can’t remember everything he said . . .’ She carried the finished jelly back to the larder and closed the door. ‘If they see the jelly, they won’t want to eat the sandwiches,’ she explained. ‘Now, where did I put the chocolate biscuits?’ She stared round the kitchen. ‘Oh, by the way, I thought you’d like to stay overnight so I’ve made up the bed in the—’
‘Oh no!’ cried Georgina. ‘I mean, it’s very kind of you but . . .’ Her voice quivered and she was afraid she might cry.
‘In the spare bedroom.’ Ida smiled at her. ‘You can sleep in the big bed and one of the twins can have the small one. The other one can sleep on the sofa bed in my room.’ She held up her hands. ‘I won’t hear any arguments, Georgina. You seem quite exhausted and I’m not surprised. Such a responsibility at your age, even with the governess. I can see you’re not really fit to travel and those trams are so noisy and rattle about so! We can have a nice quiet breakfast tomorrow and then you and the twins will be on your way.’ She smiled fondly at her sister. ‘Now, let’s rejoin the children and see who’s won the jigsaw competition. Ivan’s mother will be back from the dentist shortly and then we can sit down to tea.’
Back at The Poplars, Marianne hung up the telephone, a little startled to realize that she would be spending the night alone in the house. Mrs Matlowe had been persuaded to stay with her sister overnight, although her tone of voice had suggested that she had agreed somewhat unwillingly. Neither the cook nor the maid lived in at The Poplars and had already left.
Standing at the base of the stairs in the gathering gloom, she shivered but her mind was already considering possibilities. ‘Six thirty-five,’ she muttered. What could she do? An evening stroll in the park, maybe, or along the river bank? That would pass an hour. She could catch up on some mending – the hem of one of her skirts was down . . . She could play the piano or explore the house . . . or the garden. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or explore the boat house while there is still some natural light!’
She grinned suddenly, aware that her employer had given her the perfect opportunity to see for herself exactly what was in the boat house. ‘If I can find the key.’
The keys to various parts of the house were kept on the back of the pantry door, on a board full of small hooks.
At first glance these appeared to be a baffling selection. Marianne began to decipher them. B1, B2, B3 . . . up to B5. Then there were CB and MB. ‘Can’t imagine.’ But the numbered Bs were presumably all bedrooms. Much easier than she had expected. ‘DR must be dining room and K is definitely the kitchen. FD . . .?’ It took less than a moment. ‘Front door! So there’ll be a BD for the back door . . . Yes. And this . . . LC? It’s probably the linen cupboard!’ She felt pleased with herself until she saw that the hook labelled BH lacked a key.
Staring at the vacant space she wondered why the only missing key was the one belonging to the boat house. Obviously to discourage anyone from entering it. ‘But why?’ she asked aloud. Maybe over the intervening years the place had been unused and had become unsafe. For a moment she hesitated but curiosity overcame her fears.
‘The key is somewhere!’ she decided and before she could change her mind, she went upstairs to the study and began to search the drawers of Mrs Matlowe’s desk. She found the key almost immediately and minutes later was hurrying across the lawn in the direction of the boat house.
Last time she had taken a look inside, it had been a sunny day and the children were with her looking for their leaves. Today the sky was overcast and the boat house looked almost grim, like a fat toad crouching at the far end of the garden. It had rained in the night and the wooden frame had a sodden, almost sullen look, Marianne thought nervously, but she went up the three steps carefully and thrust the key into the lock. It turned, but only so far. ‘Try the other way,’ she told herself and tried to reverse it. It moved both ways but only part way and had presumably rusted within the movement of the lock.
‘Bother!’ she said loudly and then, in a lower voice, ‘Damn!’ Shielding her eyes from the reflection in the glass, Marianne peered in at what she could see of the interior. It seemed to her that the water level was slightly down but there were locks on the river in both directions so the water could not rise and fall with the tide. It was gloomy inside the boat house and it took some time for her eyes to adjust but then she could make out the wooden walkway around the edge and in the middle, on the water . . .
‘That’s odd!’ Where was the boat she had seen previously? The narrow, flat-bottomed boat that she had assumed was a punt. There was no sign of it. Just the water, which barely rippled, reflecting the small amount of light allowed in by the windows.
On the riverside she could make out the outlines of the gates, which opened out on to the river, but now she fancied they resembled heavy doors rather than gates, and Marianne could just make out a chain and padlock that secured them. So how could a boat have made its escape? Unless, she thought, the boat house was being used by someone from outside – from beyond the house – with or without Mrs Matlowe’s permission. Or was it possible that she rented it out to someone?
Now she could also make out a few sacks to one side on the right-hand walkway and a few utensils hanging on the wall – one which she guessed might be a boat hook. On the left-hand walkway she could see a couple of baskets – possibly abandoned picnic baskets – but they seemed to be decaying fast and leaned almost drunkenly towards each other.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ she told herself. ‘Too depressing!’
But how wonderful it must have been, she mused, when the young people were there. Marianne sighed with envy. She could imagine them punting up the river – the women elegantly dressed with shady hats or parasols, the men wearing straw boaters – with the picnic basket stowed between them. Maybe a salmon mousse in a circular mould, or chopped vegetables in aspic. Maybe a game pie and potato salad, or better yet a still warm chicken wrapped in a cloth, and a . . .
‘Yoo hoo, Marianne! It’s me, Mrs Brannigan!’
Reluctantly Marianne surrendered her vision of gracious living and returned the neighbour’s wave. She walked over to the hedge where Mrs Brannigan held out a paper cone filled with something that promised to be sweet.
‘My husband just spotted you from the landing window,’ she told Marianne. ‘And I’ve just finished making these coconut creams. I hope you like coconut.’
‘I do. Thank you.’ She took them gratefully.
‘The rest are for the Methodists’ Church Bazaar. I always make something for them – it’s such a good cause.’ She watched Marianne taste one and waited for her reaction.
‘Mmm! Quite delicious!’
Satisfied, Mrs Brannigan said, ‘All on your own then?’
Marianne nodded. ‘The twins have been invited to a birthday party and Mrs Matlowe has taken them. Her sister’s persuaded her to stay the night so I’m footloose and fancy free.’ She seized the moment. ‘Does anyone else have permission to use the boat house? I ask because last time I looked I thought I saw a punt in there and now it’s gone.’
Mrs Brannigan frowned. ‘A punt? Oh no. You must have been mistaken. No one is allowed to . . .’
‘I’m wondering if someone is using it without permission. First we see a man in the garden – or the twins do – and then I thought I saw a punt, which has now vanished. Unless I’m seeing things – or going quietly mad!’
Mrs Brannigan’s expression changed. ‘You’re not psychic, are you? Some people are, you know, but often they don’t know it. My aunt lived next door to a psychic. She was quite famous and people paid her to contact their dear departed.’ She shuddered. ‘Can you imagine? A seance. That’s what it was called. I think she called herself a psychic medium.’
‘But surely a punt couldn’t be a ghost. A ghost is the spirit of a person, isn’t it? The punt I saw – or thought I saw – was empty.’
Mrs Brannigan folded her arms across her chest. ‘Whatever it is I want nothing to do with it. It gives me the shivers. More likely a trick of the light. Mind you, people pay to visit haunted houses and nothing bad happens to them, so I daresay they’re not dangerous or anything.’
‘Just the spirits of people who cannot find rest, even after they die. That’s how they’ve been described. It’s rather sad, I suppose.’
At that moment Mr Brannigan called from the kitchen door to say he’d lost a sock and his wife said, ‘Oh! Hark at me, chattering away. I quite forgot. We’re going out tonight to hear a talk about Africa, given by a friend of ours. Poor Lydia – she sings in our choir and her husband’s a missionary or some such.’ She paused for breath.
Marianne said, ‘How very admirable.’
‘Oh it is, isn’t it? But poor Lydia – she cannot bear the climate for more than a week or two so she cannot stay with her husband. Their grown-up daughter takes her place at the mission. They’re a very devout family. Well, enjoy your coconut creams, Marianne. We’ll chat some other time.’
Slowly Marianne made her way back into the house. She returned the boat house key to the drawer in the desk and wondered how to spend her evening. She boiled an egg and cut three slices of bread, and buttered them. It was strange eating alone at the kitchen table. Her thoughts reverted to her conversation about ghosts and spirits and she wondered if the man the children had seen really
had
been a ghost. Could it have been their father’s ghost, she wondered. Maybe his spirit had returned to the last place where he had seen his children playing . . . Or, as Mrs Brannigan suggested, nothing more than shadows and her fertile imagination.
‘No.’ Neil could never have seen his children playing because they were only babies when he and Leonora left and they would not have been old enough to play in the garden – although they were probably outside in their prams whenever the weather permitted.
She washed up after her frugal meal and then spent twenty minutes playing the piano – a very small medley of tunes she had learned as a child – and searched the bookcase for something to read. Finding Mrs Matlowe’s choice of reading not to her taste, she trimmed a few dead leaves from the roses that Mrs Matlowe had placed in a bowl in the hall.
Finally, in desperation she went up to her room and wrote a letter to her closest friend who had been at school with her.
Imagine me
, she wrote,
in my somewhat spartan room – a frayed carpet, one upholstered chair, a bed which creaks, a very small fireplace with a coal scuttle to match and a view over a haunted boat house! I’m beginning to feel like someone created by Jane Austen!
She rolled her eyes. Perhaps she was being over-dramatic. Alice would laugh, remembering how prone Marianne had been to exaggerate.
My employer is rather odd and very strait-laced,
but her beloved son is dead and she has sole care of his twin girls who I am attempting to educate. They, the twins, are very sweet and the neighbours seem pleasant enough and to top it all this is Henley-on-Thames and in a few weeks it will be time for the regatta – sorry, the Henley Royal Regatta, to give it its new title – and the entire area will be filled with spectators for the various races. All those charming young men in boaters and striped blazers! Surely they cannot all be accompanied by equally charming young women. Maybe I will meet Mr Right!
The daylight was going and Marianne stopped writing, rubbed her tired eyes and glanced out over the lawn. Clouds were rolling up beyond the boat house and for a moment she thought she saw a flickering light within its dilapidated frame.
‘Stop it, Marianne!’ she told herself. ‘It’s probably the light from a boat moving up river, or from a fisherman on the opposite bank.’ Just in case there was no rational explanation, she decided to draw the curtains. If there
was
an unhappy spirit trying to attract her attention, she wanted none of it.
I have quite enough to deal with in the present
, she thought,
without getting involved with the past
.
FOUR
T
he next day, when the twins had arrived home full of excitement following Ivan’s birthday party, they sat with Marianne on a seat set alongside the river while the latter attempted to explain about different languages. Emmie appeared vaguely interested but Edie seemed to find the lesson boring.
Marianne pointed to a lady and gentlemen who were walking past with a small white dog on a lead. ‘We call that a dog,’ she said. ‘In France they would call it a
chien.
’
Emmie said dutifully, ‘A dog is a
chien.
’ She turned to her sister. ‘Say it, Edie.’
Edie swung her legs. ‘Why don’t they just say dog?’
‘Because we’re learning what French people say,’ Emmie told her loftily. ‘Grandmother wants us to learn some French words and . . .’
‘Here comes a boat!’ Edie jumped from the seat and rushed towards the water’s edge to get a better view and Emmie followed. Marianne moved closer to them as they all watched a young man who propelled the slim wooden boat by pushing a long pole against the river bottom. He waved to the twins and, by doing so, made the punt swerve a little so that the woman who accompanied him gave a little shriek and said, ‘Tommy, darling, do watch what you’re doing!’
The twins waved back.
Edie said hopefully, ‘Are they going to fall in?’
Marianne laughed. ‘I hope not.’
‘What do they call a boat in France, Marianne?’