EQMM, May 2012 (24 page)

Kelly said nothing. Brett's best clients were from the Middle East, rich men who traded in oil. They oozed charm, but she didn't care for the way they looked at her.

"Seriously, you'll be able to experiment.” He paused. “You know, you can try out all the appliances in that wonderful kitchen downstairs."

She gazed across the living space to the gleaming breakfast bar and state-of-the-art stainless-steel units at the far end of the house. She and Brett might have boarded a starship, where no germs and grime could survive.

"This is where the organist used to play,” Brett said, waving towards the matching bedroom cupboards. “But when the place was converted, of course the organ had to go."

Later, Kelly took herself out for a walk while Brett made a few calls. He always had calls to make; he liked to say that he made sure his clients always got whatever they wanted. The grounds of Meadow View were smaller than she'd expected, though as Brett said, that wasn't a problem, since neither of them were gardeners. She could plant a few flowers at the back. He'd dig out a border to keep her happy.

There were no gravestones. Another selling point of the property, Brett explained; it was rare to find an Anglican church in this part of England without an accompanying graveyard. St. Lucy's cemetery once sprawled behind the rectory, he'd heard, but the parish allowed it to become overgrown, a haunt for the village's few indigenous teenagers to misbehave with each other and take drugs at night when no adults were around. The planners insisted it be tidied up as part of the regeneration project. Now the gravestones lined a neat formal garden that linked the lane to the main street. Brett wasn't sure if the remains were left under the redeveloped land or reinterred elsewhere, but the whole garden was monitored by CCTV and the gates were locked as soon as darkness fell. Much more respectful.

Beyond the meadow, a string of industrial units lined the horizon. Sun glinted on their dark metal roofs. A throaty rumble came from vehicles queuing on the slip road, although the new motorway was invisible. Across the lane from Meadow View stood a large building almost as old as her new home. At first she thought it was another house, and wondered what her new neighbours would be like, but then she saw the front garden had been turned into a car park with spaces marked for half a dozen cars, and spotted a freshly painted board announcing the place as headquarters of Old Rectory Technology Solutions. A sign indicated the way to The Meadow Memorial Garden, but Kelly ignored it. The memory of her lost baby was too raw for her to wish to confront fresh reminders of mortality.

The lane was narrow, and lacked a pavement. Three times in as many minutes, Kelly pressed herself into the hawthorn hedge as a lorry raced round the bend on the wrong side of the road, taking a short cut to the business park. At least there was no need to worry about traffic noise in the house. Brett said the triple glazing made it soundproof.

A couple of hundred yards further on, the lane dog-legged and Kelly saw the junction with the main street that ran through the village. A shame the school had closed. A quiet place in the countryside was perfect for bringing up youngsters. She wanted to try again soon for another baby, even though her pregnancy had been an accident. To begin with, she'd dreaded Brett's reaction when she broke the news. He admitted thinking he was still too young for fatherhood, but after that first fraught conversation, he'd never raised the possibility of abortion again. The miscarriage was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, worse even than her mother's death from cancer—Dad had deserted them when she was five, and she'd never heard from him since—but at least she had Brett. He wept when she lost the baby, though he soon seemed to get over it. She rid herself of any impression that his generosity was tinged with relief. Her mother used to be fond of saying that everything happens for the best in the long run, though Mum's own troubled life scarcely proved her point.

"Are you the new person?” a hoarse voice asked.

Kelly's thoughts had wandered, and she hadn't seen the old woman leaning on the gate of a dilapidated cottage close to the junction. The woman's white hair was untidy, and her lined face reminded Kelly of parchment. Her misty grey eyes were fixed on some point far away. She wore an ancient black overcoat that seemed too big for her. An unlikely soul mate, but if the village was to become her home, Kelly must make friends, and this old biddy would have forgotten far more about the neighbourhood than incomers would ever know.

"My partner and I have just bought Meadow View, yes."

"Meadow View?” The woman closed her eyes for a moment, as if determined to shut out the here and now. “St. Lucy's, you mean."

Kelly hated causing offence. Better make it plain that she was an ignoramus. Most people liked to give help to others who were in need. It made them feel superior.

"I wasn't even aware there was a saint called Lucy,” she said with a friendly smile. “Sorry, I wonder, can you tell me if . . ."

"You don't know about St. Lucy?” The woman shook her head. “And we didn't have partners in my day, either. You either lived in wedlock or sin, and that was an end to it."

Kelly said hastily, “This is such a lovely part of the world. I feel so lucky to be moving here. Becoming part of the community."

The old woman resumed her contemplation of an invisible spot in the distance. “We used to call the church a house of God. Not any longer."

"The man who designed our house made a spectacular job of it,” Kelly said. “Would you like to come and visit us, have a look round? We'd be happy to offer a cup of tea and scones."

The woman coughed. “You don't understand."

Kelly felt a nip of wind on her bare cheeks. “Well, I mustn't keep you. But it was nice to say hello. I'm called Kelly, by the way. Sorry, I don't know who you are?"

"My name is Honoria,” the woman said.

"Lovely.” Kelly stretched out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Honoria. And I look forward to seeing you again. Don't forget to look in next time you're passing, the tea and scones are a standing invitation."

The woman stepped back from the gate and ignored Kelly's hand. “Do not sleep in that house tonight."

Kelly stared. “Sorry?"

The woman limped back up the path towards her front door. The garden was a mess of nettles and ground elder, and the house cried out for a lick of paint. One of the ground-floor windows was cracked.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud. Kelly hurried back in the direction of Meadow View.

"If you insist,” Brett said.

"It's not a matter of insisting,” Kelly said. “Only, I didn't expect any of this. I have stuff to do back home."

"This is your home now."

"Yes, I mean the flat.” She stroked his hand. “Look, it's only for one night. If you run me back, we can stay over. . . ."

He sighed heavily, and she knew she had persuaded him. What she didn't know was why a stray remark from a stupid old woman had bothered her so that she didn't want to spend tonight in their new dream house. Honoria must be jealous of them. Two young people with their lives ahead of them, everything to look forward to. The old cow would be reduced to a meagre state pension, surrounded by strangers in a village that had changed beyond all recognition. No wonder she was bitter, and prepared to spoil the innocent pleasure of others.

But spoil it she had. Kelly was determined not to stay here tonight. Of course, she couldn't explain to Brett. He would only laugh and say she was a gullible fool. It might make him wonder again what a tall, handsome Rhodes scholar from Sydney had in common with a shy English girl who worked in a florist's shop. Things would be different in the bright light of morning. Honoria hadn't warned her against sleeping here in future, she reasoned. Nor would the woman have a second chance to make a nuisance of herself. From now on, Kelly meant to give her a wide berth.

When they were in the car, she asked, “Who was St. Lucy, then?"

"I looked her up,” Brett said, as he zigzagged past smaller vehicles into the fast lane of the motorway. He always relished parading his knowledge. They had first met twelve months ago, in a posh London bar, when she was on a night out with a friend from school. Brett captained the winning team in a quiz, and he bought the girls champagne to celebrate his success. He was six feet seven, with bleached blond hair and the bluest eyes Kelly had ever seen. That night, he and Kelly made love for the first time. They had been together ever since. “I like to do my homework. Lucy is patron saint of the blind."

"Never heard of her."

"She was a Christian martyr who consecrated her virginity to the Lord.” He sniggered. “When her marriage to a pagan bridegroom was arranged, she turned the fellow down. He took his revenge by denouncing her to the magistrate. She was ordered to burn a sacrifice, and when she refused, her sentence was to work as a prostitute."

"Poor wretch!"

"Yes.” He considered her, blue eyes gleaming. “But the guards found they could not move her, even when she was hitched to a team of oxen. In their anger, they gouged out her eyes with a fork."

She put her hand to her mouth, too shocked to speak.

"You did ask,” he said. “Maybe she should have been more cooperative. Anyway, it's good to know the history of your own home. If we don't understand the past, how can we prepare for the future?"

For a few miles, Kelly did not say another word. Something puzzled her. When they were a couple of streets away from the flat, she asked, “How come you managed to buy the house so quickly? I heard on the news that the property market is depressed."

"This is a buyer's market,” he said. “I put in a basement offer, non-negotiable, with a twenty-four hour deadline. The woman who was selling had to make her mind up on the spot. Take it or leave it, yes or no. She said yes, and that was that."

"I thought you said the house was converted by a man called Dixon."

"Yeah, but my vendor was a woman called Hitchmough, all right?"

"How long had she lived there?"

"I don't think she ever moved in."

"What do you mean?"

Keeping his eyes on the road, he said, “Have you been listening to gossip in the village while you were out on your walk?"

"No, I don't understand.” She fought to keep panic out of her voice. “What sort of gossip?"

He exhaled. “It's only that someone died there."

"Where? In our new house?"

"Listen, there were protests about the regeneration of the village. The not-in-my-backyard brigade caused a load of trouble. A lost cause, obviously, but John Fryer, the old bloke who used to play the organ, decided to stand in the way of progress. He blocked the path of the builders’ trucks. When the police were called in, he took shelter inside the church."

"Sanctuary?"

"Stupidity, more like. He was wasting his time, obviously. When they told him the church authorities wanted him out, he went berserk. He was a widower, and he reckoned the church and its organ were all he had left. Whatever happened to the afterlife, huh? Sounds to me like his so-called Christianity was only skin deep."

"What did Fryer do?"

"Threw himself from the loft onto the ground."

"Oh no!"

"No maple floorboards at that time, needless to say. The church floor was solid stone. His head was smashed up, as you might expect. Utterly ridiculous. What was he trying to prove?"

"Yet the conversion went ahead?"

"Thank goodness it did, from our point of view. Not that it did Dixon much good."

"Why do you say that?"

"Fryer's death may have spooked him more than anybody realised. Then again, maybe he was just exhausted. The project was almost complete, he'd been working at it night and day, when he slipped off a ladder and fractured his skull."

"He died too?"

” ‘Fraid so. The place was on the market for a year or more, until the Hitchmough woman bought it from Dixon's family."

"You mean two people met their deaths in our house?"

"What's so unusual about that? Not everyone dies in hospital, you know.” His lips tightened. “That unborn baby of yours died in your flat, have you forgotten?"

Kelly bit her tongue, did not say a word.

"This is how things get snarled up, when people react emotionally.” He clenched his fist, trying to keep control. “For some reason, Hitchmough got the wind up herself, that's why she never moved in."

"But it took her a long time to sell?"

"Blame the economy, sweetie. Hitchmough was desperate, that's why she bit my hand off even at a massive undervalue. One person's misfortune is another's slice of luck. That's how life goes."

"So not a single person has slept in the house since it stopped being a church?"

He gave her a sideways look. “Exciting, isn't it, sweetie? We have our very own virgin home. You and I are the first real occupants."

They returned to Meadow View at noon the next day. While Brett busied himself with calls to clients on his mobile, she tiptoed into the porch, closed the double door without a sound, and set off down the lane towards the village.

Soon she arrived at the cottage where she'd met Honoria. She'd changed her mind about avoiding the old woman. Sometimes you needed to confront your fears, that was why she'd asked the doctor whether she was going to lose the baby. She was due a break. If she interrogated Honoria about what happened to John Fryer, and Dixon for that matter, chances were she'd find there was nothing to worry about. Accidents happen every day, you can't allow your life to be taken over by fear.

The garden gate was latched, but nobody was in sight. Kelly pushed open the gate, and strode up to the door. When she pressed the bell, nobody answered. She knocked furiously, until her knuckles hurt, but with the same result. The cracked front window was festooned with cobwebs. Peering through the grimy panes, Kelly saw that the room was empty. Yellowed newspapers covered the floor, but there was no furniture. Honoria must live in the back. It wasn't uncommon for old people to confine their living quarters to small portions of their homes, when the whole house became difficult to manage.