Beneath the Shadows (9 page)

That night, after Millie was safely tucked up in bed, Grace carried one of the boxes from the attic down the stairs, set it in the middle of the lounge, and kneeled on the floor in front of it. Opening the lid, she began plucking a few things from the top at random.

Out came clothes. Old-style blouses, a couple of dresses, a christening gown.

To begin with she handled things carefully, one at a time, but after a while she stood up, heaved the box onto its side and then over, spilling all the contents onto the floor. Then she picked through the mound in front of her, examining each item before putting everything except the christening gown back into the box they had come from. After she had finished, she found a pen in her bag and wrote ‘Charity' on the lid.

One down – in half an hour. Why had she avoided this
for so long? she asked herself, and went to get the next box.

This one contained books. She pulled out the top layer until she could heft the box over again, and then tipped it upside down, searching through, glancing at titles and authors. There weren't many names she recognised, and they all looked dated. Besides, she didn't need any extra reading when there was a bookshelf of classics upstairs. She put one or two aside, and began to pile the rest back into the box.

When she had finished, she moved to the little alcove set into the lounge wall, where, in addition to a small glass duck and sprigs of dried heather, there was another row of books: crossword dictionaries, field guides for bird-watching, and a few gardening encyclopedias. They all went into the box with the others.

She paused as she came across a slim hardback covered by a dull grey dust jacket with raggedy edges, a black and white picture on the front of it. She read the title:
Ghosts of the Moors
. The photograph featured a tall stone cross in the foreground and a shadowy stone bridge visible in the distance, across a strip of moorland. The photo looked like it had been taken in twilight, so that the bridge was dimly lit, the low-lying hills behind it little more than shadows.

She opened the book and began to read the introduction:

Grace shuddered, and turned the page, thumbing through the rest at random. It was full of short chapters, with titles like ‘The hob on the hill', ‘The witches' knoll', and ‘The knights of Freeborough'. Towards the back, she came across ‘The barghest'. She read the first few sentences:
A fearsome hound with razor-sharp teeth and claws. Seen shortly before the death of a local.

She remembered the dream she'd had on her first night back. She could vividly picture that contorted face, smell its hot, meaty, panting breath.
The death of a local.
Grace hastily closed the book and put it inside the charity box. She would be rid of that one as soon as possible.

 

‘Just checking in,' Annabel said brightly the next morning when Grace answered the phone. ‘What's new in no-man's-land then?'

Grace laughed despite herself. ‘You'll be pleased to hear I'm making some progress – and I'm getting the kitchen wall knocked down this week.'

‘So you're going ahead with renovating?'

‘Yes – I'm not sure how much I'll do, but I'm really
tempted to try and rent it as a holiday let, and it will work much better with one big room downstairs.'

‘Sounds good,' Annabel said, then her tone changed. ‘Hang on, are we going to be living in a dust box all Christmas?'

‘Don't worry, Ben says he'll have it all sorted by then. It might not be too pretty, mind you.'

‘Ben said so, did he? And who, tell me, is Ben?'

‘He lives up the road – I told you he was coming over on Sunday about the work. He's done a great job on the plans.'

‘Grace, please tell me you've checked his credentials out properly?'

Grace immediately felt defensive. ‘He showed me heaps of drawings. It's obvious he knows what he's talking about.'

‘GRACE!' Annabel shrieked down the phone. ‘For God's sake – he's about to knock down a wall in your home. Unless you want the whole ceiling to come crashing in, then I suggest you ask to see some references. Honestly, what are you thinking?'

Grace was relieved she hadn't told Annabel that it was Ben they'd seen in the pub last Saturday, being unceremoniously told to leave. However, she knew her sister had a point. She had agreed to let Ben do the job without being thorough. She had been grateful to find someone so easily, someone who talked like they knew what they were doing, and who could be left to get on with it.

‘Grace, are you listening to me?' Annabel was saying. ‘Before you let that man into your cottage with a large hammer, I want you to ask him for some background information.
References, qualifications, experience – and I mean
relevant
experience. Promise me?'

Grace knew Annabel would never leave her alone until she'd agreed – or, worse still, would phone their parents. So there was little option but to say, ‘Fine, I promise.'

 

Ben was at the door soon after breakfast. Grace waited as he wandered around downstairs making notes, then began to study the wall that divided kitchen and lounge. Millie sat on the floor, inspecting him closely.

‘As I suspected, solid stone,' he said. ‘I'll check upstairs, but I don't think it's load-bearing. I can always put a beam in for extra support if needs be.' He looked at the furniture. ‘Anywhere we can move this to?'

Grace thought for a moment. ‘I suppose we could stack it in the cellar.'

‘Well, you can leave that to me. If you clear those shelves in the corner and pack away everything in the kitchen, then I'll cover it all up and get cracking. I plan to have the wall down by Thursday, and spend Friday clearing up. It might not be pretty over Christmas but you'll have a lot bigger area, and you'll be able to think more about what you might do with it next … Does that sound good to you?'

As he waited for her reply, Grace knew it was now or never. ‘Ben, I'm sorry, I know I should have asked you this earlier … Do you have any references or qualifications you can show me?'

He looked surprised rather than offended. ‘I'm really sorry, Grace, but I don't have anything with me. You know
that I'm house-sitting, and I'm a long way from home right now. I can reassure you that I once worked as a labourer, even though it's been a while, and I'm a qualified architect. However, I can't actually prove anything without troubling people to go into my empty house and send me documents.' He sighed. ‘I completely understand why you're asking, but it might take me a while to get these things to you … particularly with Christmas around the corner. Would you rather find somebody else? I understand if you want to – it might be better for your peace of mind?'

Grace's thoughts raced as he stood waiting for her answer. What should she do? The possibility of going back to square one appalled her, particularly when everything had fallen so easily into place. It was Annabel who was worried, after all. Ben might be reticent, but Grace felt she could trust him with the cottage – he had already done far more than she had asked, for no apparent reason other than to help her out.

‘I'd still like you to do it,' she said decisively.

‘Okay then.' Ben picked up his coat. ‘You're putting your faith in me, I appreciate that, but you've got nothing to worry about.'

As he spoke, Millie pulled herself up against the sofa and tried to reach Ben's papers. ‘No Millie,' Grace said, hurrying over, but Millie ignored her and snatched them, flinging them aside and watching as they floated to the ground.

Grace began picking them up, and Ben joined in. As they got to their feet, Grace handed over those she'd collected, and caught Ben's eye. They were standing far too close, and he was looking at her so directly that a shiver ran through her.

‘Do you have any more questions before we get started?' His voice was a deep susurrant burr.

Grace stepped back. ‘No, I don't think so.'

‘Then I'll be over tomorrow.' He moved past her, heading for the door.

Grace saw him out and went back to Millie. As they began to play together, she found that, now he'd gone, numerous questions were running through her mind, but few were to do with the cottage.

At five o'clock on Wednesday, Grace strapped Millie into her car seat, and drove the short distance to Meredith's house. She felt a little cowardly for not walking, but it was already pitch black outside, and the wind was up. Part of her wished she hadn't agreed to this meal, but in some ways it was perfect timing. The kitchen was unusable – if she had stayed in it would have been toast or sandwiches for tea.

The downstairs living area of Hawthorn Cottage was now a shambles. Amazing, Grace thought, that things which took so long to construct were so easily returned to chaos. She had spent the previous night clearing out the lounge and kitchen, and it hadn't taken Ben long to move the furniture down to the cellar when he'd arrived first thing. She had left him to it, and taken Millie on a drive around the moors, thankful for the current mild weather. They had found a small teashop in a sleepy village where the lady owner was
very taken by Millie, carrying her around and showing her an assortment of trinkets and knitted teddy bears.

‘You on your holidays?' she'd asked Grace while putting her tea and scone on the checkered tablecloth.

‘Something like that,' Grace replied.

‘You should come back and see the moors in't' spring,' the woman said. ‘They've hidden their secrets away now, till the snow's passed and the thaw comes.'

The whole afternoon had been so genteel that Grace felt less troubled as she made her way to Meredith's front door. Millie was wide awake, which was making Grace a little nervous, remembering Meredith's attitude towards Millie on Sunday. Grace had brought a bag of toys with them, hoping they would be enough to keep her daughter amused for a while.

When she reached the door, it swung open before she even had the chance to knock. ‘Come in,' Meredith said, ushering them both out of the cold. They could hear Pippa barking in another part of the house.

Grace followed Meredith through to the dining room. The curtains to the picture window were open, but night had fallen and there was nothing to see beyond them this time, not even a light on the horizon or a star in the sky.

‘Thank you so much for inviting us again.' As Grace looked around, she noticed that the table was less extravagantly furnished this evening, with only two place settings. ‘Is Claire here?' she asked, her spirits waning at the thought of trying to make conversation with Meredith on her own.

‘No, Claire's gone to collect Jenny and bring her home for Christmas,' Meredith replied. ‘All my girls will be here
this year – although Veronica, my eldest, is staying in Ockton. This place is big, but it's not large enough for her brood and everybody else as well.'

As Grace set Millie down on the floor, Meredith asked, ‘So what are you doing for Christmas?'

‘My sister will be here,' Grace replied while giving Millie the bag of toys.

‘That's good. Christmas is a hard time to be alone. Well, I'll go and dish up – back in a moment.'

Grace began to play with Millie, showing her the toys, though it was obvious that Millie wanted to crawl away and begin investigating this interesting new space. Grace glanced around the softly lit room, with its thick chintz curtains and polished furniture. Everything looked precisely positioned, as though she had found herself on a stage set rather than in someone's home. She wondered if this room was singled out and kept pristine for entertaining, or whether the whole house was like this. Judging by how well Meredith had looked after Grace's cottage, it was probably the latter, she thought.

She heard footsteps getting louder, and then Meredith reentered the room, carrying two plates piled high with food. ‘Come and sit down,' she said. ‘I've managed to borrow a high chair, so you can bring Millie over. Will she eat some roast chicken?'

‘It might be messy,' Grace warned, picking Millie up, wondering if Meredith had found the high chair especially for them, and thinking what a considerate gesture it was if so.

Meredith motioned to the polished wooden floor. ‘It's easy enough to wipe.'

They took their places, and Meredith chopped up a few pieces of chicken and some vegetables, then presented them to Millie on a child's plastic plate with a plastic knife and fork. Millie ignored the cutlery, and picked the meat up with her fingers, looking thoughtful as she tested it with her teeth.

Meredith took a sip of water. ‘So, Grace,' she said, ‘how are you getting on with the cottage? Found anything interesting?'

Grace speared a perfect golden roast potato with her fork. ‘I haven't got very far yet. It's been lots of books and clothes so far, but most of them mean little to me, I'm afraid. It's very odd sorting through people's belongings and making decisions when you didn't know them very well.'

‘You know, I think it's a damn good idea to have a stranger go through your things after you die,' Meredith said. ‘You're unlikely to miss the heirlooms for Millie, after all, but you won't be overly emotional.'

Annabel should be doing this job, Grace realised. Her sister didn't have a sentimental bone in her body when it came to belongings. She enjoyed buying new things too much to be able to afford any qualms about keeping the old. Nothing delighted Annabel more than going through Grace's wardrobe and emptying it with strings of exclamatory remarks.

‘I find it more disconcerting in some ways,' Grace confided. ‘Not knowing the history of anything that I'm looking at. I always have this feeling that I might be missing something important.'

‘There's not really much we own that is all that important, though, is there?' Meredith looked around the room contemptuously. ‘I would be a lot less cluttered if it wasn't
for my girls – they practically handcuff me every time I suggest having a clear-out. They don't want to live here any more, but I think it gives them a sense of security to know that their childhood home is still here, the same as it always was. They come here to feel safe.' As she spoke, she glanced towards the mantelpiece of photographs.

Grace put down her cutlery for a moment to encourage Millie to try her vegetables. She recalled the contents of the boxes that she'd sorted through so far, debating what Meredith might find interesting. ‘You know, I did find a book about local ghost stories.'

‘Let me guess –
Ghosts of the Moors
.'

‘Yes,' Grace said, surprised, ‘I'm sure that was the title.'

‘And did you notice the author?'

When Grace shook her head, Meredith got up, went across to a bookcase and pulled a slim volume from the shelf, handing it over.

Grace recognised the cover, and now she looked at the author's name: ‘C. Romano?' She regarded Meredith blankly. ‘Should I know who that is?'

Meredith nodded and waited, but on seeing Grace's confusion, she said, ‘That's Connie Lockwood, maiden name Romano. Adam's grandmother.'

‘Oh.' Grace looked down again at the slim volume in her hands. Millie's great-grandmother had written this. She supposed she had better take it out of the charity box.

Meredith took the book and returned it to the shelf. ‘She presented all the villagers with one, when it was first published, back in the eighties.'

‘Why did she use her maiden name?'

‘I'm not sure. Connie was fascinated by the legends around the place. Her mother's family were local, but her father was Italian. When Mussolini declared war against Britain, her father was sent to Eden Camp, and the rest of them stayed nearby with relatives to be close to him. After the war, when he was released, they remained in Inglethorpe. People weren't always kind, from what I heard tell, but Connie's father was a doctor, and before long a few people needed his help. After that, the consensus changed, and the community grew very protective of them. Bill had been away fighting in the war, and when he came back he fell in love with Connie. They moved here once they were married, and it took them a long time to have children – Rachel came late in life for them, and was unexpected, I think, but they doted on her. Didn't Adam tell you any of this?'

As Grace shook her head, Meredith echoed the gesture sadly. ‘You know, it's such a shame these stories get lost. Why are we so careless that we let our own histories die without even noticing?'

Grace thought of the little she knew about Connie and Bill. After hearing this small snippet of their lives, she couldn't help but picture them differently – as a young couple struggling to build a life together after the war. Her sense of responsibility towards them grew stronger – and she wasn't sure she welcomed the feeling.

Meredith was studying her. ‘You seem lost in thought, Grace?'

‘I was thinking about how I nearly threw the book away – and what a loss it would have been. Thank goodness I mentioned it to you.'

‘Well, that book is an unusual one,' Meredith said. ‘But, you know, if you need any help I'd be happy to give you a hand … Bill worked for my husband Ted for a number of years, so I knew him and Connie quite well.'

Grace pictured the remaining boxes stacked waiting for her. Going through them was a wearisome task, but she wasn't sure she wanted someone else involved. She needed to make any discoveries in private. Moreover, there was an aloofness in Meredith's manner, despite her pleasantries, which Grace found unnerving. But she didn't want to be rude either. ‘Perhaps you could look at the things I put aside,' she suggested. ‘In case there's anything you know more about, or think is worth keeping.'

‘Of course,' Meredith agreed. ‘But I can help you more than that. I'll go through everything with you. It must be so much work on your own with a small child – I can't imagine how you'll get through it otherwise.'

Her persistence made Grace uncomfortable, but she wasn't sure how to decline. ‘Thanks, but I'm fine for now. Perhaps in the New Year.'

Meredith said nothing, but looked disgruntled as she picked up her knife and fork. They ate in silence for a little while.

‘Do you like it here, Grace?'

The question was asked off-handedly, but Grace felt the air around them thicken with the anticipation of her reply. Not wanting to offend, or lie, she hesitated before saying, ‘I can't tell yet, to be honest. I'm sure I would like it a lot more if the circumstances were different.'

Meredith nodded as she thought. ‘You know, I often
wonder whether this place – the villages, the moors – has a certain mystical quality that draws people back – or one which won't let them go. Perhaps I feel like that because it's where my family are from, where we belong. But people often return here. And I don't know why – since we're obviously well away from most of civilisation. You and Adam, for instance …' She looked at Grace carefully. ‘Why did you decide to come here?'

Grace began to cut up more of her dinner to give to Millie, who had wolfed down her first portion and was banging her plate on the table. ‘Adam thought it would be good for us to get out of the rat race for a while – try something different. We
both
thought so,' she amended.

‘Well, it's certainly different to London,' Meredith said. ‘I often think about what will happen to the village when my generation dies out. Will people stick it out here, ignoring the lure of the big cities, or will it be abandoned? I have a feeling it will become an out-of-the-way holiday destination, and these old houses steeped in history will be nothing more than the temporary homes of travellers.'

Grace bit her lip. It was probably best not to mention that she was considering letting out Hawthorn Cottage as a holiday home.

‘How long was the school open here?' she asked, hoping to move to a more comfortable topic.

‘It closed down in the late sixties when there were no longer enough children to sustain it. My brood had to get a bus over the hill to Ockton. Did Adam not tell you anything of the history of the village?'

Grace shook her head.
I imagined he'd have plenty of
time to show me around
, she added to herself. ‘I'm not sure how much he knew,' she said. ‘I don't think he ever came here until after his mother had died.'

Meredith seemed sombre. ‘Rachel was only eighteen when she left – there were five years between us, but we were good friends,' she said. ‘Since we were the only young girls in the village, we leaned on each other. I was shocked when she disappeared overnight, without even saying goodbye – although we hadn't seen as much of each other since I'd got married and had Veronica. Then, all those years later, Adam was back here with his grandparents. I hadn't even known that Rachel had a child. But, as I said, if you've a connection to this place it draws you back in, one way or another. Of course, Adam wouldn't have lived here that summer if Rachel hadn't died.' She paused, then shook her head as though clearing unpleasant memories. ‘Adam was a rather intense young man, I remember that … but I put it down to grieving rather than character. He was terribly young to be without his mother.' Meredith looked intently towards the picture window as she spoke, as though something was visible to her in the darkness.

Grace felt her curiosity growing. ‘Did you know Adam's father?' Adam hadn't talked about him much – the topic was obviously painful so she had never pressed it.

‘Yes, I knew him.' Meredith's mouth tightened into a grim line. ‘Jonathan Templeton – he lived on a farm not far away. Everyone around here knew him – he was quite the catch. Rachel was madly in love with him. From what I've learned since, I gather he got her pregnant just before his family emigrated to Australia on one of those ten-pound
tickets. So he fled from the responsibility. And afterwards she ran away …'

‘Adam didn't know much about him,' Grace confided. ‘He knew his name, and that Rachel ran off to stay with some friends in York when she was pregnant, gave birth to Adam there. When Adam was two she began a love affair that lasted the rest of her life – although she never married the man; they never even lived together. He was well off, apparently, and took care of Rachel and Adam financially. It was only after Rachel died that Adam found out he already had a wife and two children. Adam never spoke to him again after that.'