Eleven New Ghost Stories (12 page)

She accepted with a nod, a
slight smile and a mumble of thanks. She really was absolutely
drenched. The second she sat down I started to worry about the
state of the seat and mud getting all over the mat.

She was heading back to _______,
same as me. I asked her if the rain had taken her by surprise, and
she said:

“I always take my walk in the
afternoon; I don’t let the weather stop me.” She meant it too.
There was a look of aged formidability in her face; the type that
people of a certain age get when they go militant against the
weaknesses of getting older and aren’t going to let anyone tell
them that they can’t do this or that anymore. But when she took off
her hoods and glasses she was younger than she first appeared.
Early-to-mid 50s rather than late 60s – she was overweight, not
tall, and pale, sallow, tired-looking.

“Have you lived around here
long?” I asked, hoping to build a conversation.

She was polite, but brusque:
“All my life,” she answered. After a pause, she followed with “You
must be new; haven’t seen your face before.”

“Yes, I moved here about two
weeks ago.”

“Not from Scotland?”

“No,” I smirked, everyone kept
saying that.

“From London I suppose?”

“Sort of, not originally, but
that’s where I was living.”

“We get a lot of your sort
around here now.” She said this in a mildly disapproving way, but
less so than some folk I’d spoken to. It was true, the village was
isolated but well-off, a haven for middle-class families wishing to
“get away from it all”. Although only a few seemed to be
English.

“Not a bit quiet for you?”

“That’s sort of what I
wanted.”

“Never saw the point of cities.
Too cramped and cooped up. You get proper air out here.”

The conversation continued this
way for a few miles – stops and starts and awkward silences.

“You married?”

I thought for a second, and just
answered “no”. Later I thought I saw her looking down at my hands;
if she caught sight of my ring, she must have chosen not to pry
about it.

“Most folk move out here now to
raise kids. Not so many years ago all the kids seemed to leave. Now
the parents seem keen to drag them back again.” I thought I could
see a hint of a smile; I thought maybe she was starting to ease up
a little, but then I asked:

“Do you work around here?”

“No,” she said, becoming more
hard-faced. “Can’t work because of my back.” She used an
end-of-subject tone.

I chose not to pry either. But
she’d been a good five or six miles out of the village; she
obviously couldn’t be that unhealthy. Although she could well have
given herself pneumonia in this weather. I’d been foolish taking
the car out in that downpour. As I thought about it I realised she
must’ve been crazy to go out at all. It must’ve been at least a
10-mile round journey for her. What on earth was she thinking?

“You take a long walk every
day?” I just had to ask.

“Not always, sometimes.” She
corrected herself and said “Most days. You must have a job in
_____.”

“Oh no. Well, not yet.” I
answered. “I really just wanted to get away from it for a while; I
haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet.”

“And what did you do
before?”

“I was a psychiatric nurse.”

“Oh well, you should have no
trouble finding work. Plenty of fools around here.” There wasn’t
even the tiniest hint of a smile; she wasn’t making a joke.

As I approached the village she
gave me directions to where to drop her off, rather presumptuously
assuming I was happy to take her home. It was a pleasant terraced
house, well looked-after, small garden at the front, just like
mine.

“I appreciate your help,” she
said, getting out. “Safe journey now.” I watched as she walked
slowly up to her front door and let herself in. Most folk around
here barely bothered to lock their doors, but she spent several
moments unlocking bolts and letting herself in.

I realised suddenly that I
hadn’t caught her name. And she hadn’t asked for mine either. I
looked over at the passenger seat and scowled; I’d have to spend
time cleaning it. Muddy footprints were all over the mat.

I drove home, which was about a
mile or so on the other side of the village. Well, more probably it
was a town; it just felt like a village, and everyone called it
one.

There were no answerphone
messages when I got back, which was a relief. The phone was my only
point of contact now; I’d decided to give up my mobile. Not that it
would probably work out in ______ anyway. I’d probably get the
internet put in eventually, but I had no idea how long I was going
to stay.

The old lady who owned the place
seemed to know nothing about letting. I’d paid her for two months’
rent and she said we’d ‘see how it goes’. I think she let it
normally for holidays, so she probably rarely had tenants
off-season. Not that I could think why there’d be much demand for
it as a holiday home, although I suppose for hikers, climbers, and
outdoor types it would have quite a bit of appeal. Hills,
mountains, woodlands and streams could be found in almost all
directions.

It was a good job it was a
holiday home, otherwise it would’ve been empty. I only had two
suitcases, everything else I had was in storage. I was putting my
past-life to one side and just thinking about me and what I wanted
to do next. And there’d be no rush; there was no need for a rush.
I’d just go on and see how I felt and how things unfolded.

I didn’t have much to do at
first. I enjoyed reading, I took a little to hiking, but the
weather was generally too miserable and it was starting to turn
cold. I went to the cinema, the first time in years. They had this
quaint little town hall cinema; they pulled down a little screen
and had their own projector. They played Casablanca and To Have and
Have Not on a double-bill. All the pensioners were there; they
looked at me like I was from another planet. Clearly they didn’t
get newcomers often.

I thought about painting, but I
wasn’t very good at it and gave up a bit too easily. I thought I
needed to meet some people and make some friends. I volunteered at
the local pet rescue charity shop. It hadn’t been open long and
Joyce, the manager, was pretty much doing everything herself.

They had strange ways, some of
the folk around there. They wouldn’t volunteer to help, but they’d
sort of ask about it and if you just happened to ask them if they’d
like to, then maybe they could probably just about find some time
to come in once or twice a week, or more.

They used to look at Joyce like
she was an alien too. She was Jamaican – she used to joke she was
the only black woman for 50 miles. Although it could’ve been her
size too. She was a good 6 foot tall and big-bodied. She used to
tower over the little old folk. They were nice people really, just
used to things being always the same.

We did have a laugh. She was
irrepressible – you could hear her laugh in the pharmacy next door.
And things were starting to get busy after a few slow months.
______ is a strange place, there was no high-street as such. Just
odd little pockets of shops here and there, as if people kept
trying to set one up, but kept giving up.

We talked a lot; she didn’t know
many people either, but was much better at making friends. She was
just one of those people: big, open and bubbly; everyone felt like
she was their friend.

I confided in her a little. Told
her about my husband’s death without giving away too many of the
details. I just told her about the cancer and left it at that. She
didn’t ask too many questions. She understood that I was trying to
move on with my life and we concentrated more on happy things. She
kept telling me she was going to set me up with someone. I laughed
and joked about it, but that was really the last thing I wanted and
did my best to let her know without being nasty about it. Difficult
to know who she could set me up with anyway; the only single types
they seemed to have around _____ were little old men.

I’d been working there a week or
two when the lady I’d picked up appeared at the shop counter. I
hadn’t seen her come in; I’d been talking to Horace, a sweet old
man from up the road who liked to talk, and talk, and talk…

“Hello,” I said with
familiarity. She returned the greeting with only a hint of
fondness. She placed a red umbrella on the counter.

“For your walks?” I said,
attempting conversation again.

She didn’t answer. “How much is
that?”

“Three pounds for
umbrellas”.

“And those as well?” She moved
the umbrella; there were two gloves on the counter, children’s
woolly gloves. They were pink with little yellow flowers on.

“Oh, they’re a pound. Four in
total.”

She held out a fiver and I took
it. Just when I thought she’d forgotten who I was, she said “Are
you settling in all right?” She said it almost like an obligation,
a chore.

“Yes, I’m settling in fine,
thank you,” I answered, while passing her her change.

“Good,” she said, giving the
smallest of smiles and a nod.

“Would you like a bag?”

“No thank you.” She picked up
the umbrella and stuffed the gloves into her coat pocket. “Good
afternoon”.

I smiled and she started to
amble towards the door. Just as she was passing the women’s jacket
stand, the clouds seemed to burst outside and it started to rain.
She stopped and stood watching it.

“Good job you bought the
umbrella,” I said. She didn’t say anything. After a moment she just
carried on. She went out the door and walked away in the rain. She
didn’t even open the umbrella.

She was strange, but in my
profession, I’d seen a lot worse. She probably just had trouble
talking to people; it doesn’t necessarily get any easier when you
get older. It was probably quite hard for her to even try. I felt
quite touched that she was trying; it was so easy for folk getting
older to just give up.

The rain killed custom for the
afternoon; the street was dead after three o’clock. We closed at
four. Joyce had spent the afternoon going through a large donation
and not a good one. Unfortunately, the pet rescue store was much
closer than the dump. There was so much rubbish it would take two
rubbish collections to get it all taken away.

While she cashed up, I started
to take the sacks out. They were heavy; I managed two at a time,
but only just. The rain was still falling hard. I dragged them out
through the side door and towards the metal skip bin. There was a
girl playing in the alley, jumping joyously in the puddles. It made
me smile.

I put the rubbish bags down and
unlocked the bin lid. After I threw it open, I got one bag in fine.
But I caught the other on the bin’s side and it tore. Some items
fell out – a broken bead necklace slipped out and scattered beads
in all directions when it hit the ground. I swore.

“You’re not throwing away toys
are you?”

I looked up, slightly
embarrassed, at the young girl. She was maybe six or seven, not
very old. And she was dressed in a faded blue duffle coat; vintage,
but worn and old. Some of the buttons were missing. She was looking
at a wooden toy train that had also dropped through the tear.

I put the bag down. “It’s broken
dear,” I said. “The wheels have all come off.” She stared at me,
saying nothing. I smiled at her; she didn’t move. Her face was
frozen in a sulking expression, eyes downcast, lips curling
downward. She was white, frighteningly pale; she looked almost
albino, like she was freezing.

Feeling a bit spooked, I picked
up the second rubbish sack and got it in the bin. As I bent down to
pick up the train, I noticed she was gone. Vanished, without a
sound.

It was very strange. I tried to
pick up some of the scattered beads but gave up quickly and went
back inside. I didn’t think much about the pale girl until later,
when I started to wonder what on earth she was doing behind a
charity shop in an alley leading to a row of garages? There didn’t
seem to be anyone else there. Who was she with? And where did she
go?

One of the first things Joyce
had found out from me when I started was where I lived. This was so
she could find out whether I would be able to give her a lift home
after work. Joyce didn’t drive; she could probably walk it, but she
had an amazing ability of avoiding any kind of hard work. When I
was there she always managed to find some reason why it was better
for me to do any lifting. I brought in the donation bags, she just
did the sorting. And that way she could grab anything she liked
first.

Her house, which was only
supposed to be just around the corner from mine, was actually a
good mile and a half away. Just past the outskirts of ______,
nestled amongst some trees. She called it Grandma’s House, because
it looked like it had come right out of a fairy tale. It had a long
winding path and a tiny rock wall fence, and a little red gate. It
was a single storey bungalow, with a thatched roof; you could just
imagine a big bad wolf hiding behind the door.

Anyway, we were a short distance
away from there, stuck waiting to cross the bridge over the river
because of a tractor, when I saw that woman again. The rain was
starting to clear now, but she had her umbrella, the one she bought
from me, still open. Her head was hung down, she looked positively
miserable. It had been over two hours since I’d served her. Had she
really been out all that time?

“It’s that woman again,” I said,
thinking out loud.

“What’s that?” said Joyce.

“That woman, I gave her a lift
the other day. She was out in the middle of nowhere soaked to the
skin, walking. Now she’s doing it again.”

“You gave her a lift? Crazy
Rose?”

“You what?”