The Unseen (13 page)
‘Sorry – you don’t know by any chance when it went from being The Rectory to being The Old Rectory, do you? When it was sold off by the church, I mean?’ she asked. The woman looked at Leah’s hand on the door as though it wielded a weapon.
‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know. Possibly during the thirties. A lot of church property passed into private hands at that time.’
‘OK, thanks. Thank you.’ Leah released her and returned to the road.
When she reached The Old Rectory, Leah paused, stepping onto the sodden verge as a car splashed past. It was a lovely old building, Queen Anne, she guessed; square and symmetrical and halfway to rack and ruin. The red bricks stood proud, the mortar between them long since eroded away. The garden to the front was badly overgrown, although the remains of last year’s geraniums, dead and bedraggled in stone troughs by the door, suggested that somebody still lived there, and made something of an effort. Leah couldn’t see any cars parked anywhere on the driveway, or any lights on inside even though the day was gloomy and getting gloomier. She stood and watched it covertly for a few minutes, in case she saw movement within. This, then, was the house where the letters she had pored over so avidly of late had been written. Her heart picked up a little at the thought. It felt like peeping through a tiny keyhole in a door, into the past. With some unspecified nerves, she went up the garden path and gave the dull brass knocker a good thump. She could hear the sound echo inside.
A youngish man opened the door, just a chink, and frowned out at her.
‘What?’ he said, abruptly. Leah got an impression of narrow grey eyes, short dark hair, several days’ growth of stubble and a slightly bewildered expression.
‘Oh, hello. Sorry to bother you—’ she began, only to be cut off short.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped. Behind him, the house was in darkness. Leah tried not to peer past him too obviously. Suddenly, she longed to explore the place.
‘My name’s Leah Hickson, and I’m doing some research into—’
‘Research? What do you mean?’ the man interrupted again.
Leah felt her cheeks colour with irritation. ‘Well, as I was about to explain, I’m looking for somebody who—’
‘Are you a journalist?’ the man demanded.
‘Well, yes, I am,’ Leah answered, taken aback.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ the man exclaimed, rubbing his eyes viciously with his spare hand. Leah was too startled to respond. ‘How did you find me? Who gave you this address? Can’t you people take a hint – like bugger off? If I wanted to talk to any of you, do you think I’d have come all the way out here?’
‘I … I can assure you that whatever you think, I—’
‘Just don’t bother. I’ve heard every possible sodding pretext from you lot over the last three months. Get off my doorstep. Is it just you, or can I expect a steady stream of you to start turning up?’ he said, coldly.
‘No, no – it’s just me. I—’
‘Good. Keep it that way. And get
lost
.’ The man enunciated each word with furious clarity. He slammed the door in her face, and Leah stood still for twenty seconds or more, too stunned to move.
Eventually, her blood singing with indignation, and anger giving her a faint headache at her temples, Leah knocked again, as loudly as she could, and for a long time. But there was no response from the grey-eyed man, or anybody else who might be there, and no sounds from inside whatsoever. It began to rain steadily, and
Leah was forced to retreat. She returned to her car, took out her notebook and wrote
Natives hostile
with an ironic flourish on the first blank page; then she sat and watched the rain for a little while, as it pattered and pooled and trickled down her windscreen. Ryan loved the rain. Even this reminded her of him, and she lived in a country famous for it. She thought of the dead soldier’s wet hair, the way it had been slick against his skull. How much rain had fallen on his body, as he had lain undiscovered for a hundred years? She imagined it tickling skin that could no longer feel; soaking through clothes to flesh that could no longer shiver. Firmly, she banished the thoughts. She did not want the dead man turning up in her dreams.
She made her way back to the main road, then turned and followed the A
4
into Thatcham. She parked up and wandered around for quarter of an hour, quickly establishing that she would not want to stay in any of the pubs in the small town. The main shopping street, called The Broadway, was occupied by bottomend chain stores and tiny bank branches. People moved steadily through the growing downpour, their faces and eyes downturned, feet resignedly skirting the grubby puddles. It looked as downbeat and sad as only a small town at the messy end of winter can look. There was an old-fashioned bookshop, though, in which Leah spent a pleasant half-hour browsing and drying out. She bought two books on local history, and got a recommendation from the lady at the till for a good pub, The Swing Bridge, that did bed and breakfast, halfway back towards Cold Ash Holt and down a side lane next to the canal. Leah made her way there, and was shown to a room heavy with chintz and over-stuffed cushions. But it was warm, and had a wide, sweeping view of the rain-sodden water meadows lying to the east. In the distance, through a spindly row of poplar trees, Leah thought she could make out the spire of Cold Ash Holt church. She made herself a cup of tea from the tray, and sat, lost in thought, at the window.
*
The Swing Bridge had a largely local clientele who sat in groups at the bar and on benches along sticky wooden tables, and greeted each new arrival with nods and smiles and soft, drawled words. Leah came down for her dinner at eight and was shown into the restaurant area, which was off to one side of the bar, colder, and painfully empty. She sat at a table laid for two, positioning herself so she could at least see through into the bar. The empty room behind her made the back of her neck prickle. She ordered fish and chips, and wished she’d brought a book with her for cover. She’d had vague ideas about joining a group of locals, and learning some local legends from them, but their conversations all seemed too personal, their groups so closed that she was suddenly too shy to interrupt. There were enough bones left in her fish to keep her occupied.
When she next looked up, she noticed with a start that she was no longer the only person sitting alone. Perched on a barstool, knees gaping uncomfortably to either side, was the man from The Old Rectory. Even though her view of him had been a shadowed glimpse, she was sure it was him. He hadn’t bothered taking off his coat – a shapeless, faded green anorak – and he had a navy blue woollen hat pulled down low on his head.
Quite the casual local
, Leah thought; but when she looked down at his feet, his boots were of smooth brown leather, the laces tied tightly around sturdy brass studs. They were too clean, and too expensive. Leah’s curiosity mounted. The man was clearly trying not to be noticed, trying not to be recognised. As it was, she saw more than one glance aimed in his direction, more than one muttered comment passed. The man stared resolutely at the drip tray in front of him, and drank a pint of bitter with dogged resolve.
Leah could not resist it. She got up quickly as the man drained his glass and intercepted him as he turned for the door.
‘Hello again,’ she said, brightly. The man gave her a startled look, and then recognition drew down his brows. He tried to side-step her but she mirrored the move. ‘We seemed to get off on
the wrong foot before, and I’m sorry if I … disturbed you. I’m Leah Hickson, as I mentioned. And you are?’ She held out her hand to him. He gave it a scornful look, and did not shake it.
‘You know perfectly bloody well who I am. Now please get out of my way and leave me alone – is it too much to ask that I can go out for a drink on a Friday night without being followed …’ the man said in a low tone, his voice tight.
‘I assure you, I haven’t the slightest idea who you are,’ Leah interrupted him. ‘And I didn’t follow you – I’m staying here for a few days. I hear they do a good fry-up in the morning.’
‘Oh, great. You just
happen
to be staying here. Is this going to be one of those “this is your chance to give your side of the story” offers? Because I’ve heard it all before!’ the man snapped. There were knots at the corners of his jaw, and Leah suddenly realised that he looked exhausted. Grey bags sat heavy under his eyes, and tired lines tracked the contours around his mouth.
‘Look … I hate to burst your bubble, but I really don’t know who you are. You’re clearly not as famous as you think. I am a journalist, but I’m working on a historical piece about a soldier of the Great War, and I came to Cold Ash Holt looking for information about him. He had links to The Rectory – which is why I knocked on your door. Whatever you’ve done – or not done – I’m afraid I’m really not interested. Unless it helps me find out about my soldier, which I somehow doubt it will.’ There was a long pause as the man considered this, his expression veering between relief, disbelief and anger.
‘Are you sure you’re not just …’ he trailed off, twisting one hand in a gesture she couldn’t decipher.
‘I’m telling you the truth. I really am. And if you’ve got time, and can relax for a minute, I’d love to buy you another pint and ask you some questions about The Rectory.’ The man stared at her for a moment longer then rubbed his eyes hard with the fingers of his left hand, just as he had at the door earlier on. A nervous tic, or a sign of fatigue perhaps.
‘OK. Sure. If you’re really who you say you are,’ he relented.
‘I am who I say I am,’ Leah assured him, amused. ‘Let’s sit by the fire – I ate dinner in the other room and it was like a tomb in there.’
Quiet now, the belligerence running from him like water through a sieve, the man slumped into a chair near the fire, and Leah studied him covertly as she waited for the beer to be pulled, peering at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. But she need not have worried about him noticing. He was staring into the air between his knees, picking absently at the edge of one thumbnail. With an agitated swipe he pulled the hat from his head, and she noticed that his hair badly needed washing, and quite possibly cutting as well. It lay flat to his skull, looking coarse and grubby. He was tall and lean, and the way his clothes hung from him it looked like he might have borrowed them from someone else, or perhaps lost a lot of weight recently. When she went over to the table he glanced up, pale-grey eyes alert again, on guard.
‘One good thing about being out of London – you can get a pint without taking out a small mortgage,’ Leah said as she sat down. The man paid no attention to the remark.
‘So what do you want to talk about? That ridiculous thing about the fairies? That was shortly before the First World War, if I remember right,’ he said, taking a long swig from his glass. Leah’s pulse picked up a little.
‘Sure, I’d like to hear more about that …’ She left a convenient pause, but the man didn’t fill it. ‘I know you’re sort of … incognito, but could I at least know your name?’ she prompted him.
‘Sorry, yes, of course. Sorry. It’s been a … difficult couple of months. It’s Mark. Mark Canning,’ he said. Leah smiled, butterflies spinning in her stomach.
June 16th, 1911
Dearest Amelia
,
I am writing to you of another new arrival to our quiet home: Mister Robin Durrant, the theosophist. I don’t expect you to know what a theosophist is, so let me enlighten you – not that I claim to be an expert! I had to get an explanation from Albert, and half of that I did not understand. He describes theosophy as a quest for wisdom and spiritual enlightenment, and through the practice of it, theosophists hope to be able to release themselves from the ties of flesh, and commune with beings on higher spiritual planes. I had rather thought that this was what we strove to do with prayer, but apparently it is quite different
.
Mr Durrant is a man that Albert heard speak a fortnight or so ago, in Newbury, on the subject of nature sprites and the like. Albert didn’t talk about it a great deal at the time, but just a few days ago, he came in from his morning walk quite convinced that he had encountered such magical creatures – although apparently I ought not to call them this – out in the meadows around Cold Ash Holt
.
I must say, the meadows are quite stunningly lovely at this time of year. They are simply glowing with life and wild flowers and fresh green growth. The grasses and reeds are growing so quickly, one can almost hear them at it if one stops and turns an ear! If nature can indeed put forth a spiritual body of some kind, then surely this would be the perfect environment for it to do so? I can’t help but wonder, though. It seems such an extraordinary thing – as though he had come home and claimed to have seen a unicorn! But, of course, he must be telling the truth, and as his wife I must support him, and trust in his better judgement. He is a scholar, and a man of the cloth after all. I can make no such lofty claims
.
And so this young man, Mr Durrant, is due to arrive later this morning, since Albert wrote to him about his observations; and will stay with us for a while – I admit I have not been able to get from Albert how long this might be. Mrs Bell is quite in a flap about lunch and dinner for three – it’s a while since she’s had to cater for any more than just Albert and I. Which only goes to show, dearest, that a visit from you and my dear brother-in-law, not to mention sweet Ellie and John, is long overdue. Just name the date – your rooms are always ready for you. If he is to stay a while, this Mr Durrant, I do hope he is an amiable chap, and not too grand or clever and learned, else I fear I’ll find nothing at all to say to him that he won’t consider silly beyond belief!
Here is something that will surely make you laugh – but you mustn’t, because I am quite serious. I have begun to worry that there may be something amiss with Albert. In terms of his physical conformation, that is – never with his heart or the essence of him, of course. I was coming back from the school just yesterday afternoon, and as we passed John Westcott’s farm, I caught sight of his stallion being ‘put’ to a mare – I believe this is the term they use to describe this natural and necessary act. Westcott’s daughters were out on the verge, cutting grass for their pigs, and they curtseyed to me most prettily, but I admit my attention was quite drawn by the spectacle going on behind them. Entirely improper of me, I am sure, and I should no doubt have averted my gaze, but such natural sights are common when one lives in as rural a place as this. I would not for one second compare my dear husband to a farmyard animal, but I can only assume that, on some terribly base level, the physical systems of most creatures are – at least very loosely – similar. But perhaps I am wrong in this as well? There. That will have to be all I say on the matter, since I am blushing and feeling horribly treacherous as I write this to you, and you are my own flesh and blood! If by some small mercy you understand what I mean by this comparison, then your clarification, as ever, would be so welcome, my dear sister
.
