The Forget-Me-Not Summer (13 page)

Miranda stared at him, her eyes rounding. ‘How do you know it's called Jamaica House?' she whispered. ‘I suppose you aren't a ghost yourself, come back to haunt the old place and me?'

Steve laughed. ‘I see'd a picture in an old book – that were the name carved over the main entrance door, before they built the wall which divides the house from Jamaica Close. I didn't take much notice at the time because I didn't know about the slaves then, but now it all fits, wouldn't you say?'

Miranda nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose you're right. Tell you what, we'll ask the Voice. Sometimes questions make her either angry or sad, and when that happens she just goes away and won't come back, no matter how often you say how sorry you are. But I don't see why she should mind talking about the name of the house.' By now they were approaching the little door in the wall
and as they went through it, with Timmy close behind them, Miranda said enticingly: ‘But now you're here, Steve, you can hear her for yourself. In fact we might be able to trick her into showing herself with two of us. If I engage her in conversation and you sort of go behind where you think she is . . .'

Steve gave a strong shudder. He would do a lot for Miranda, but he did not mean to become part of a ghost hunt. He told himself it was not cowardly to be afraid of ghosts. If she had been a flesh and blood woman, as Miranda had seemed to imply, then that was one thing, but a ghost was different. He knew from his reading of such authors as Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens and even Oscar Wilde that ghosts could do unexpectedly horrible things. Walking through walls, clanking chains and whisking a human being through time and space were but three of their accomplishments, and Steve had no wish to find himself mixed up in such goings-on. But Miranda was looking at him hopefully, so he decided to disillusion her at once. ‘I won't go ghost hunting with you, or anyone else for that matter,' he said doggedly. ‘I said I'd never go into that perishin' house again, and I meant every word. I've brung a bottle of water to drink and if you and that horrible little dog wants anything out of the kitchen you can get it yourselves; so there!'

Miranda moaned. ‘Oh, please, please, please, Steve, help me to find out whether the Voice is a real person or a ghost,' she said urgently. ‘I'm not afraid of going into the house any more because Timmy always runs ahead of me now, with his tail wagging. I'm sure she's a real person, and I'm sure it's she who ate the bread and cheese. If only you'll give it a try . . .'

‘Just you shut up and listen to me for a moment,' Steve said crossly. ‘Suppose it was a real person who took the bread and cheese? If that's so, then how has she been living for the past goodness knows how many weeks on just one piece of bread and cheese? I don't believe she's ever picked any fruit in the garden since we've been coming here – or at least not enough to notice. So go on, tell me. How is she keeping alive?'

Miranda stared at him for a moment while a pink flush crept up her cheeks, then she stamped her foot, took the satchel off her shoulder and slung it down on the grass. Steve noticed that the garden looked a good deal tidier than it had done when he had first entered it, many weeks ago. He asked Miranda if it was her doing, which made her smile. ‘Are you saying we're like Mary and Dickon in
The Secret Garden
? If so, you're wrong. Oh, I've done a bit of tidying, rooting out the weeds and clearing a path through the nettles so that I can reach the door without being stung to bits.' She looked around her thoughtfully. ‘Do you know, I've not noticed, but you're absolutely right. Someone
has
been tidying up the garden. Well, I'm sure it's not someone from outside, so it must be the Voice. And if you've ever heard of a ghost who did gardening on the side, it's more than I have. Doesn't that convince you that the Voice is real?'

Steve shrugged, then grinned. ‘You've got a point,' he admitted. ‘And I'll come into the kitchen with you – maybe even further. But if someone starts giggling or walking through walls, or interfering with me in any way whatsoever, I'm off. Is that understood? Oh, and the dog has to go first, because dogs can sense things and if there was a ghost I reckon he'd bolt out of the kitchen
howling like a banshee with his tail between his legs.'

Miranda beamed at him. ‘And then, when we've both heard the Voice, we'll come out into the garden again and have our carry-out whilst you tell me all about your holiday,' she said. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you. If you go into the big trees right up against the wall there's a swing. It's quite safe, I've tried it, and because it's beneath the shade of the trees you get a lovely cool breeze when you swing.'

Steve stared at her, then followed the direction of her pointing finger. It wasn't a proper swing, just a length of very thick rope with a couple of knots around a somewhat dilapidated piece of plank. But it was a swing all right, and Steve was pretty sure that it had not been there on his previous visits. He opened his mouth to say as much, then shut it again and caught hold of Miranda's hand. ‘Come on then,' he said cheerfully, pulling her up the path towards the door. He would not have admitted it to Miranda for the world, but the sight of the swing, such a very mundane object, had reassured him as to the nature of the Voice. A ghost would not – could not – erect a swing, but a real person would only do so in order to encourage young people such as himself and Miranda to continue visiting the garden. What was more, Miranda had said it was not she who had attacked the weeds, and in his experience she was a truthful girl and unlikely to tell an unnecessary fib.

She was smiling at him, clearly delighted by his change of heart. ‘I'm so glad you're going to come into the house with me; I'm sure you won't regret it,' she said eagerly. ‘I've got a good feeling about today; today I think we shall find out why the Voice hides away in the old
building and disappears whenever I ask a question which she doesn't want to answer.'

By this time they had reached the door and Miranda pushed it open, whereupon Timmy the dog trotted fearlessly into the darkened kitchen, then looked over his shoulder as if to ask why they were so slow. The three of them walked into the middle of the room and waited for a moment. It was pretty clear that Miranda, and Timmy the dog, expected something to happen, but nothing did, so Miranda crossed the floor and pulled open the door which led to the pitch black hallway, which was the only way to reach all the other rooms in the house. Despite himself, Steve felt a pang which, if not of fear, was definitely of discomfort. Miranda, however, seemed completely at ease. She put her head back and called softly. ‘Coo-ee, where are you, Voice?' There was a soft chuckle and despite himself Steve felt the short hairs on the back of his neck bristle like a dog's hackles, but then, as his eyes began to get used to the dark, he thought he saw a slight movement.

‘So you have come to visit the lady of the house; I real pleased to welcome you,' the Voice said, and Steve clung even tighter to Miranda's small delicate hand. ‘But let us introduce us. I know dog is Timmy, and my friend is Miranda, but who you, boy?'

‘I'm Steve Mickleborough,' Steve said awkwardly, and to his complete astonishment he suddenly saw hovering in front of him what looked like a half-moon of white in the darkness. It was so startling, so unexpected, that he gave a squawk of fright and jumped backwards, but Miranda, who had also gasped, suddenly broke into delighted laughter.

‘You aren't a ghost, nor just a voice, you're a Cheshire Cat grin,' she said triumphantly. ‘Open the shutters so we can see each other properly; you've had your fun, Voice, but it's time you came clean.'

The grin disappeared, if it was a grin, and for a moment Steve thought that the Voice had left the room, possibly annoyed by the fact that she was no longer a mystery to her two guests. But then one of the shutters creaked back a couple of inches and in the sunlight which poured through the gap Steve saw that the mystery woman was black as coal, and dressed entirely in black as well. Liverpool being a port, Steve was well used to the sight of black seamen roaming the streets. They were friendly and much addicted to the markets, where they spent lavishly on all sorts of strange objects. But by and large these visitors were men, whereas the person smiling uncertainly at them in the shaft of sunlight was most definitely a woman. She was tiny, even smaller than Miranda, and very skinny, which Steve thought not surprising considering that she must have been existing on any scraps she could find, plus a bit of fruit from the garden. Her face was wrinkled, her nose hooked, but her eyes twinkled at them and Steve was sure she was enjoying their surprise, and was even more sure of it when she grinned again. Her thin black hair was pulled into a tight little bun at the nape of her neck but Steve could not guess her age, though he thought she must be very old, fifty or sixty at least.

As soon as the light had entered the room, Miranda had bounded forward and seized the woman's hands in both of hers. ‘So
that
's why we couldn't see you, and thought you were just a voice; we never thought you
might be black,' she said. ‘Do let's go into the garden to talk, though, because the house is awfully musty and I'm afraid if we start to open the shutters . . .'

‘No,' the woman said quickly, shutting the one she had opened and plunging them into darkness once more. ‘People come lookin'; mebbe he come again . . . at night-times I bolt doors and shutters. He not know I here, but if he did . . .'

She stopped speaking, looking anxiously from one face to the other, and Miranda spoke quickly, keen to calm any fears which the older woman might feel. ‘It's all right, Voice, we won't touch the shutters. But who are you afraid of? No one comes here, do they? Well, not in daylight anyhow. So let's go outside, shall we? Oh, by the way, you know our names, but what's yours?'

As she spoke Miranda had been leading the way out of the dining room, through the kitchen and into the bright sunlight, to the place where she and Steve usually ate any food they had managed to bring with them. It was a long stone seat, set in a curved alcove in the great brick wall, and was a delightful spot. One could sit in the full sun on the right-hand side of the seat, or take advantage of the shade cast by an ancient cherry tree on the left-hand side. The three of them sat down and Miranda and Steve looked hopefully at their companion. ‘Go on, what's your name?' Miranda repeated eagerly. ‘It's not a secret, is it?'

The woman shook her head, flashing them a small, rather embarrassed smile. ‘I Melissa. My family call me Missie, but men on ship call me Ebony.' She pulled a face. ‘They meant to insult, but why should I care? In my own head I call them ruder names. Cap'n Hogg, I
called Pig . . .' she chuckled, ‘but you can call me Missie, as my children did.'

Miranda turned to Steve. ‘Get out the grub and we'll divide it three ways; I'm sure there's plenty. And while we're eating, Missie can tell us her story.'

‘And we'll tell her ours,' Steve said rather reproachfully. He was older than Miranda and had been the one to introduce her to Jamaica House, so he thought it should be he who took the lead, and decided to start with the question which fascinated him most of all. He produced the pile of jam sandwiches, oatcakes and cheese from his satchel and handed them round. Then he addressed Missie directly for the first time.

‘If you don't mind me askin', what have you been livin' on all this while? You've been here ages to my knowledge, so what have you had to eat? Oh, I know there's fruit in the garden, but that hadn't even begun to ripen when I first found the place, and you were here then. I went into the kitchen and heard you giggling . . .'

Their new friend laughed. ‘I saw you run like rabbit,' she said cheerfully. ‘At first I scared you was Cap'n Pig, but when I saw you were stranger, I pleased and gave little laugh.' She repeated the giggle which had so frightened Steve the first time he had heard it. ‘When you ran off, I thought I do it again if bad men come.'

Steve nodded wisely. ‘Yes, I quite see that your giggle would put most people off exploring any further. But you still haven't said how you've been keeping body and soul together.' He saw her puzzled look, and rephrased the question. ‘What've you been eatin'? Where did your food come from? You can't have existed on fresh air, nor on the odds and ends the factories chuck out.'

Missie glanced uneasily from one to the other, and Miranda gave Steve a scowl, before saying: ‘You needn't tell us if you don't want to, Missie, only it seems so strange . . .'

‘In summer, big factory leave window open just tiny bit. When it really dark and no one about, I get in to room where food is. I never take much, just a little.'

‘What about winter? Or when someone notices and closes the window?' Steve asked. ‘What do you do then?'

‘I used to go down to docks and take from ships, or from boxes waiting collection,' their new friend said promptly. ‘But better tell you my story from start.' She smiled at them both. ‘I been here for many months, have seen seasons come and go, yet you first to come here in all that time.'

She looked enquiringly at them, but Steve shook his head. ‘Go on,' he said firmly. ‘Right from the very beginning, so that we truly understand.'

Melissa finished off the oatcake she had been eating, drew a deep breath and began. ‘I come from small island in West Indies and for many years I work as nursemaid or nanny to children of man who own more than half of island. I happy then, I love job, but plantation owners send sons to England to get good education when they old enough. I lucky because Mr and Mrs Grimshaw, my employers, had large family and I look after them as they arrived, from birth until they went to school in England. When last child no longer need me, I was given cottage on shore and pension.' She sighed reminiscently, and Steve saw that her liquid eyes were dark with tears. ‘But I miss my children, so I decide to help at village school. Each day I walk to work . . .'