Dream Cottage (4 page)

“Do you know who owns it?” Greta asked.

Her mother shook her head.

“Sorry darling, no, we haven’t got a clue, have we Charles? We don’t know much about this area of the Island. Perhaps we should…”

“If you’re talking about that place in the valley, I know who owns it,” a voice from the neighbouring table announced. Greta turned to see a middle-aged man
dressed in a tweed sports jacket, checked shirt and yellow embossed tie, sitting at a table with a bottle blonde-haired younger woman with a small boy and girl. He raised his whisky tumbler at Greta.

“Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhear you talking,” he replied.

“Nosy git!” Leo muttered. Greta kicked him under the table. “Ouch! You…” he nursed his ankle.

The man continued.

“’Tis owned by the local vicar. Funny old stick.”

“Oh, really?” Greta was intrigued. “Has it been empty for long?”

“Since the last occupant left this world,” the man reflectively replied. “Oh sorry, let me introduce myself. I’m Marcus Mowbrie. This is my wife Arabella and these two young monkeys are Honey and Hector, our eight year old twins.”

Greta rose to her feet and reached across to shake Marcus Mowbrie’s hand. It was rough from evident hard labour.

“Hi, I’m Greta Berkley and this is my husband, Max.”

“And I am Jeanne; Greta’s mother!” boomed Jeanne, who had also risen to her feet; she took hold of Marcus Mowbrie’s calloused hand and shook it enthusiastically.

“Oh!” She swiftly removed her hand and tersely continued, “Charmed, I am sure.” She smiled in anticipation at Greta.

“Do you mean the previous occupier died?” Greta surmised.

“Yes, but in strange circumstances. Very unfortunate… you see, well… I don’t know if I should say anything but…” Mowbrie hesitated, awaiting the guaranteed response.

“Strange circumstances? What do you mean?” Greta echoed.

“Yes, the tenant was found lying stone cold dead at the cottage, in the garden; no evidence to say how she got there; nothing at all. Local police won’t comment on the happenings. It was all very strange, you might say, like the house… strange,” Mowbrie frowned as he spoke.

“Surely the vicar must know what happened to her?”

Mowbrie shook his head.

“She’d been living there for some years. It was all very weird. Folk don’t like speaking about it. The vicar don’t like to speak about it neither. Always changes the subject, if you try to talk to him about it.”

“Oh, that’s terrible!” Greta returned to her seat.

“Some say the cottage is haunted by someone or something long departed from this world. By all accounts, they also died in mysterious circumstances.”

“Oh my days! This sounds like something off the telly!” roared Leo in hysterics. “I wonder… who dunnit?”

Mowbrie raised an eyebrow.

“No laughing matter, young sir. It was very sad, very unpleasant.”

“What actually happened to
that
person?” Greta felt uncomfortable. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she felt a cold shiver across her back.

“No one knows, except that she too was found outside the cottage, in the garden. With no evidence on how her body got there. But that was centuries ago, so I’m led to believe.”

“Sounds like a serial house of death!” chirped Leo as he narrowly missed being slapped by Greta’s left hand. “Something out of a horror novel! Told you, didn’t I, sis?”

“Again, it’s not to be taken in jest, young sir. That’s why folk round here don’t like talking about it. You need to speak to the vicar. But he’s an odd fellow; I think the word people use to describe him is eccentric. Either that or perhaps a
little tapped!” Mowbrie indicated by touching his temple. He took a swig from his glass and returned to his meal. His wife looked nonplussed and smiled without feeling.

“Don’t listen to him, dear; Marcus only hears the gossip from the locals!” she added, spooning another pile of mashed potato from her plate into the waiting mouth of Hector, who had finished his own meal and was leaning on the edge of the table, demanding more food.

“Thank you for the information,” Greta replied. She glanced at Max; he was desperately trying to stifle a giggle.

Greta shook her head. She made a face at Max, which implied he should compose himself.

“I think we might just pay the vicar a visit, to try to find out a little more about the cottage,” Greta announced as she finished her lemon meringue pie. “Hmm, that was yummy.”

Leo felt the urge to comment further.

“Do you really want to get involved with a house like that, sis? It would freak you out completely. It will do untold damage to your psychotic abilities!”

“Psychic! You stupid prat! And no, it won’t, Leo. Don’t try to put me off. You know as much as I do about that place. Anyway, I need to know for myself, er, ourselves.”

“Did you enjoy your meals?” The landlord, Jonny Lucas, had walked across the dining room to clear the table of plates. He was assisted by Jeanne, who had collected the crockery and had neatly piled it up at the end of the table. “Er, did I hear you say you wanted to contact the vicar?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, that’s right. Mr Mowbrie says that the vicar owns the cottage in the valley,” Greta replied.

“He does indeed. He lives a couple of miles away, in the next village. I can give you his phone number if you like.” Jonny was very obliging. “I know he won’t mind
you ringing,” he added and smirked at Marcus Mowbrie. “Aint that right, Mr M?”

Mowbrie scowled but managed a smirk-filled smile. He turned towards the twins, who were becoming restless in their chairs.

“Come on, I’ll take you two outside so you can play on the swings.”

Honey and Hector left the table in a scrambled dash and made a beeline for the door, shrieking with excitement. Mowbrie only just reached them before they tore off into the lower beer gardens in search of the swings and climbing frame.

Jonny Lucas beckoned for Greta to follow him to the bar. He whispered close to Greta’s ear.

“Vicar don’t like Mr Mowbrie, because he’s tried for years to buy that cottage; vicar don’t like him or trust him; thinks he is out for making a quick profit; that don’t go down too well with the Church. He flatly refused to let Mowbrie buy it. Mowbrie owns and farms the land around the cottage.”

“Oh, I see, it’s making some sense now,” Greta surmised. “But all this talk about mysterious deaths, is that true?” she asked Jonny who was busily writing the vicar’s name, address and phone number down on a scrap of paper at the bar. He stopped writing and looked up at Greta. “Fraid it is.”

Greta stared at the scrap of paper that Jonny Lucas from the Smuggler’s Hide had given her. She tapped her mobile phone in the palm of her hand.

“Should I ring the Rev… Oliphant?” She looked across at Max who was studying the Sunday papers. They were relaxing after Sunday lunch in the
drawing
room of her parents’ home. Leo and Ardi had retired to the lounge to watch television.

“Yes, you can try; but don’t forget Sunday is probably his busiest day, isn’t it?” He didn’t look up from scanning the news columns.

“Of course, yes. I didn’t think about what day it was. I just want to have a look inside the cottage.” Greta sighed.

“Leave it for today, give him a call in the morning,” Max replied.

“But we leave for London tonight; we don’t even know when we will be back on the Island again, do we?” Greta wailed.

“Okay, ring him if you really want to, but don’t be disappointed if he can’t make it. He might not be too happy about someone asking about the place, according to all the gossip at the pub.” Max shook his head.

“I’ll only ring him if
you
want me to; I need to know that you would be interested in taking a look at the cottage as well; not just me.”

“Okay,” Max smiled. “Yes, Greta, I would be interested in having a look at it. But it all depends on whether he is prepared to sell it; what condition it’s in; you know, all the boring bits that get in the way.” Max stopped pretending to read and looked up.

Greta smiled and closed her eyes; she could hardly contain her excitement in the knowledge that Max was prepared to have a look at the cottage. She dialled the Reverend Oliphant’s number and waited for him to answer.

“Good afternoon, The Vicarage, Reverend Oli speaking,” boomed the reply.

“Oh, good afternoon Reverend Oliphant…” Greta began.

“Oli will be fine, my dear. How can I help you?” Rev Oli asked.

“I am sorry to trouble you Reverend, err, Oli, I am phoning about your cottage; at least, I am told it is your cottage…” Greta dithered as she became tongue-tied.

“I take it you mean Greenacres? Yes, that’s right, my dear. I do own Greenacres.” He cleared his throat noisily and waited for her response.

“Uh, yes. We were out… um… oh god, sorry, oh…” Greta stumbled in her quest for a decent conversation. “I was wondering if you might be interested in selling, er, Greenacres…” Greta continued to tell the Rev about their plans to move to the Island, how she had by chance seen the cottage and how they had walked to it from the pub. When they had mentioned it at the pub, they had been given further information as to who the owner was.

“Ah, yes, Jonny and Loo,” Rev Oli replied reflectively,
a smile filled his voice. “A good man and an equally good woman. They don’t attend church much though, which is such a pity. Work gets in the way, I suppose. We could do with boosting the congregation a little more.”

“So what are your thoughts on selling Greenacres, Reverend Oli?” Greta persisted. She looked across at Max who had placed the newspaper on the coffee table and was sitting staring directly at her.

“Well, I hadn’t really thought about selling it; you see, it is a property which I have owned for a very long while. It’s been in my family for generations. I rent it out; or rather I did rent it, until my tenant unfortunately passed away.”

“I’m sorry, Reverend. I didn’t realise,” Greta sounded sympathetic as Max stifled a laugh. She looked away from his twisted facial expressions.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I am quite sure the Lord is taking very good care of her. Well, I am happy for you take a look inside Greenacres if you really want to see it. It has been boarded up for quite some time, so I don’t know how bad it is, but it does need some work carried out, in fact, quite a lot of work. Oh, by the way, could I please ask you something? Are you married?”

Greta looked surprised at this question the Reverend had plucked out of mid air.

“Uh, yes, I am married. I have been married for just over a month. My husband works in London, in the City.”

“Wonderful! Forgive me; what I am trying to establish is, if I did decide to sell Greenacres to you… uh, well, that you would be able to afford to buy it and renovate it!”

Greta was a little put out at the Reverend’s impertinence and glanced at her phone.

“I don’t believe money would be an issue, Reverend. Obviously we would need to have some sort of idea how much the property is worth.”

Max frowned. He stopped reading to listen more intently to the conversation.

“Around the £450,000 mark, if that helps you,” Rev Oli promptly replied.

“I see, okay. When could we arrange to view the property?” Greta continued.

“How about this afternoon? No time like the present is there, my dear? I do have Evensong at six-thirty. How about meeting you at Greenacres at 3.30pm?”

“That would be perfect, thank you Reverend Oliphant!” Greta was delighted.

“Oli, my dear; just Oli will be fine. Everyone calls me Rev Oli!” he chimed.

“We, my husband and I, will see you there at 3.30pm and I greatly look forward to meeting you.”

“And you are?” Rev Oli confirmed.

“Greta Berkley.”

Greta ended the call and jumped up from her chair.

“Seems like you have a new pal,” Max smiled as Greta walked about the drawing room clutching her phone. “Was he trying to hit on you? Asking if you were married?”

Greta smiled. “No, course not! But for someone who hasn’t thought about selling, he seems pretty keyed up on house prices. Perhaps he just needs a nudge in the right direction.” Greta continued to walk around. “It’s called Greenacres, by the way.”

“Hence the question about whether we can afford to buy it or not. Well, it’s just after 2.30pm now; so we’d better get ready to drive over. It will take about 30 minutes or so to get there.” Max got up from his chair.

“Going somewhere nice, Maxim?” Jeanne appeared in the doorway, her hair was dishevelled. She plumped the back of her head to refresh the perm. She had just woken from a brief nap. “I don’t think I can bear to watch
the afternoon film Leo and Ardi seem so wrapped up in watching! Some sort of rom-com or chick flick, I can’t work out which! Looks like there are zombies in it too!” She looked puzzled.

“Greta has just spoken with the vicar who owns the cottage in the valley. He has agreed to meet us there in about an hour, so we can have a look inside.”

“Oh how wonderful Maxim! I will tell the father when he wakes up. He will be delighted!”

“We’ll have to see what state the cottage is in. The vicar seems to think it needs quite a lot doing to it. But we can gauge that for ourselves.”

“How exciting my dears! I say, fancy this happening after seeing the cottage from the pub. I’m a firm believer in fate; what is to be, will be, and all that,” Jeanne announced. “I will have
high tea
waiting for you upon your return!”

“Thank you Jeanne. But don’t forget we are leaving for London this evening,” Max reminded her.

“Oh of course; I will make sure it is not too much of a banquet… not too high a tea!” she laughed hysterically and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Your mother is a complete basket case, isn’t she?” Max looked over to Greta, who was staring into space. “Come to think of it,” he concluded, “it must run in the family! Come on; get your coat, my dearest. Time to make tracks for Greenacres. Greta? Did you hear me?”

Greta blinked and focussed on Max.

“Sorry, I was…”

“Daydreaming? Walking around inside the cottage, by any chance?” Max asked. “Here, put your coat on; at least you are back in the land of the living now, I think.”

“You know me too well, darling. Sorry. I’m back with you now.” Greta turned around as Max placed her coat
across her shoulders. She placed her hands on the top of Max’s hands and he held her shoulders.

“Well, we shall soon find out what this cottage is really like. But, please, please promise me this;
don’t
be disappointed if it’s in a terrible state. This is the first property we will have viewed and, no doubt, there will be others if this one turns out to be a dud.”

“I know.” Greta levered her arms into the sleeves of her coat and pulled the zip up to her chin. “There’s something about the place; but I just can’t put my finger on it.”

They drove in silence to Greenacres. Rev Oli was stood outside awaiting their arrival. To Greta’s surprise, he turned up in
normal
clothes with a dog collar. Lanky, with a marginally stooped frame and grey hair, Rev Oli’s clothes looked incredibly creased and there was a faint odour of mothballs hovering around him like a halo.

“What did you expect him to wear? His cassock? You’ve got a warped mind, my love,” said Max as he parked the car in the concrete yard. They got out of the car and walked over to the Reverend.

“Good afternoon Gretel; I am delighted to meet you. This must be uh…” Rev Oli looked at Max.

“Hello Reverend; I am Maxim Berkley,
Greta’s
husband.” Max held out a hand and it was swiftly taken by Rev Oli’s smooth, limp hand and subjected to an equally smooth and limp handshake.

“Good afternoon Maxim, well, let’s not delay any further; follow me please!” Rev Oli turned on his black suede laced up shoes and sauntered towards the open back door. “Have to take you through the servants’ entrance; can’t
find the key for the front door!” he added.

As Greta and Max walked in through what appeared to be the kitchen, Greta gasped. She stopped in her tracks.

“Oh Max; it has such a lovely feeling about it,” she gushed, looking wildly about her.

“You’ve only just stepped over the threshold,” Max laughed at her.

“Trifle dark in here; power is off, I’m sorry to say.” Rev Oli continued to lead the viewing through into the dining room, again in virtual darkness. “Doesn’t help with the windows boarded up. But I couldn’t take any chances with squatters. They have more rights than most folk these days. Strange thing, that…” he muttered.

“It’s fine, Reverend. Max has a torch, so we can see all right.” Greta followed closely behind Rev Oli, and looked around her.

Max hung back in the kitchen. He shone the torch to take a closer look at the walls and, to his relief, could not see any dire structural happenings; not in that part of the house, at least. He was intrigued by the very old-fashioned wallpaper.

“There is still some furniture in here; I must arrange to get it cleared, but the price of second hand furniture is very poor at present…” The Rev was talking to himself and indicating with his arms, as Greta waited for Max to join her in the dining room. “Be careful you don’t fall over anything!” he warned.

“Has Greenacres got a drawing room?” he joked.

“Through here, Maxim. Drawing room is just through here!” the Reverend answered.

Max and Greta had to stuff their hands in their mouths for fear of an out of control outburst of laughter.

“Mummy would be the Reverend’s number one fan,”
Greta whispered to Max, who had turned his back to compose himself. “She would be in her element!”

“And this is the living room; lounge; whatever you would like to call it; the light is a little better in here. Come on in, don’t be shy!”

Rev Oli was stood in the doorway of a very cosy lounge with an inglenook fireplace and windowsills fitted with faded seat pads large enough to deposit even the plumpest of bottoms. One of the boards on the window was dislodged. From that vantage point, Max could see that it looked over the immense overgrown gardens. He beckoned for Greta to have a look.

“Oh this is just lovely; it’s so quaint.” Greta walked into the lounge and closed her eyes. “It has such a friendly feel to the place; nothing sinister.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Rev Oli concluded. “I am glad you like Greenacres. But I still have to show you the upstairs rooms and also the grounds. Come along now; before we lose any more daylight. The sun is becoming weaker in the heavens!”

Reverend Oli ushered Greta and Max upstairs where they found four double bedrooms, a bathroom and attic rooms. Greta was completely bowled over by the amount of space and the views from each of the bedroom windows. Each room lacked any form of suitable décor and ached for a modern-day makeover. Threadbare strips of off-cut carpet lay across most of the floors with linoleum beneath. The rooms, with bare floorboards, were covered in a thick layer of dust and spent masonry. Each bedroom contained an ornate period fireplace in black cast iron. One had evidence of a bird’s nest amongst a pile of soot and dust on the hearth. The odd black feather was a giveaway and a faint smell of mustiness and damp permeated
the air. Rev Oli noticed Greta staring.

“Crows, my dear. Always seem to be a lot of crows. They like to build their nests in the chimney pots. Confounded nuisances!” He held his fingers together in prayer fashion and bent forward as he spoke. “Needs the chimney sweep to come over and prod them off their perches with his set of rods; usually does the trick!”

“We could do so much with Greenacres; to bring it back to life again,” Greta gulped. She felt a lump in her throat. She felt close to tears.