Sands of Time (20 page)

Except, perhaps sensing her hostility and her embarrassment, he was obviously intending to entertain her.

‘By dowsing, you mean water divining?’ She stood up and went to the stove. This would be her third cup – he had declined her offer of a refill – and already her nerves were jumping.

He glanced at her, noting the smartly cut blonde hair, the intense blue eyes, the tight nervous smile. She was good looking, Colin’s wife, but obviously highly strung and, if he was any judge, utterly miserable.

He nodded. ‘It’s my party trick. Weekends in the country with vets and doctors. They take one look at me and retreat immediately to deal with emergencies leaving me with their poor wives who would much rather be out shopping with their friends.’

She was glad she had her back to him, to hide her confusion. Was she that transparent? Well, he was wrong about one thing: she had no friends down here yet. None at all.

When she turned, coffee pot in hand, he was watching her, his eyebrow raised. He had a nice face, kind, rugged, if a bit lopsided, and she realised as she met his gaze, he wasn’t teasing. He was perfectly serious about his party trick. ‘Have you got any wire coat hangers?’

She produced them and watched while he bent, snapped and twisted them into two right-angled rods.

‘OK. Here’s where I earn my lunch. What have you lost?’

‘Lost?’

He nodded. ‘Engagement ring? Wedding ring?’ So, he had noticed the bare third finger of her left hand. A silly gesture, taking it off. They had got married, hadn’t they, and they weren’t divorced. Not yet. ‘Have you mislaid your car keys? Rolex? Pension book?’ He stood up holding the rods loosely in front of him. They remained still, but she had the feeling that they were quivering slightly like dogs waiting for a command. The idea made her smile.

Sitting down again she found she had relaxed for the first time since he had arrived. ‘If you’re serious, I lost a little gold cross soon after we moved here. My godmother gave it to me and it really upset me. I searched everywhere.’

He nodded. Moving away from the table he held the rods out in front of him. ‘OK. Let’s ask a few questions.’ He concentrated for a moment, then addressed the rods. ‘Is the cross in the house?’

The two bent coat hangers quivered and sprang apart.

He glanced up at Pippa. ‘Which room? We’ll ask one by one. Tell me what rooms you have.’

Within seconds they had established that the cross was – according to the rods – in the small conservatory behind the kitchen.

‘But that’s ridiculous. I never took it in there!’ Pippa found she wanted desperately for him to be right. She had never seen this done before and it intrigued her enormously. Once when she was a child, her grandfather had shown her and her sisters how to dowse for water, walking up and down the back lawn with a hazel twig in his hands. It was a bit like that. He had found the main water pipe into the house but they had all known it was there anyway and so they had not been impressed.

‘Is it in the flower beds?’ Morgan asked the rods.

No.

‘Pots?’

No.

‘What else is there?’ he asked Pippa. It was as though he were interpreting at a conference – or a police enquiry.

‘Paving stones?’

No.

‘Plants, I suppose. Perhaps they ate it!’

Her frivolous remark did not even need to be relayed. The rods sprang apart.

Yes!

‘OK. Which plant?’ Morgan was frowning with concentration.

‘Geranium.’

No.

‘Busy Lizzie?’

No.

‘Cactus?’

No.

‘Oleander?’

YES!

She laughed. ‘Oh please! Not possible. Those skimpy old things at the back? This I have to see!’

They made their way into the conservatory, leaving the rods on the kitchen table. It wasn’t really a conservatory worth the name, just a small glassed-in area behind the kitchen, smelling strongly of damp earth and rotting flowers, the mossy paving stones only a pace or two long and scarcely that wide. In the corner a pile of old clay pots spilled out stale dried earth. From one a pretty fern arched over a discarded trowel.

Against the back wall of the house there was a small bed in which were a dozen or so straggly geraniums and behind them two tall oleanders, their dusty leaves eclipsed by cascades of red flowers.

‘We should take care of this place better.’ Pippa stood beside Morgan, staring ruefully at the plants. ‘They survive in spite of me, poor things. I never even water them. It’s Colin who looks after the garden when he’s got time, which isn’t often. He’s practically never here.’ She reached up to remove a dried shrivelled flower and gave a faint gasp. Entangled in the stem was a fine gold chain. ‘I don’t believe it!’ Cautiously she unwound it and in seconds the cross was in her hand. The chain had broken near the clasp. ‘It must have caught as I walked by and then the plant grew and carried it up with it!’ She looked at Morgan in astonishment. ‘You’ve earned your lunch! Is it always so accurate? What else can we ask it? Who taught you to do it?’

He sighed. Always the same questions. Always the same curiosity. The trouble was, this particular party trick had the potential to end in tears. The rods never lied. The temptation to ask the unaskable was too great. Perhaps he shouldn’t have started this.

‘It’s all right, Morgan.’ Pippa had read him like a book. ‘I won’t ask you about Colin. I suspect I already know the answer. She’s the receptionist at the practice. And the strange thing is, if it’s true I don’t think I’m going to mind that much. Not any more. Not after our last quarrel.’ They moved out of the conservatory onto the small back lawn. ‘I suppose we never really loved each other. Not properly.’ Her face was wistful. She had loved Colin. She still did. But she was not about to tell his friend that. ‘It was wishful thinking. For both of us,’ she ploughed on, ‘but moving here, I think, crystallised things. We saw more clearly. We couldn’t hide things from each other any more. It was as if the house was some kind of catalyst. It had such a lovely atmosphere and we were somehow spoiling it.’

‘That’s sad. What will you do?’

She shrugged. ‘Move out, I suppose. Go our separate ways. With no hard feelings, though. I hope we’ll stay friends. We won’t embarrass you with screaming rows or anything like that while you’re here, I promise.’

Morgan raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘I’d like to know about the house, though.’ She turned to look at it thoughtfully. It was a pretty cottage, smothered in late roses, small windows opened to let in the autumn sunlight and warm grass-scented air, the old clay tiles a faded red, touched here and there with lichen. ‘I think someone who lived here knew about love,’ she said so quietly he had to strain to hear her. ‘Is that something you could ask your coat hangers?’

For a moment he didn’t respond, staring at the cottage in silence. Then at last he nodded.

The questions were laborious, each answered only by a yes or a no, but slowly a story emerged, teased carefully out of the air as they stood in front of the smouldering apple logs in the low-ceilinged sitting room.

‘Can we talk to the person whose love still fills this house?’

Yes.

‘First, how old is the house. Three hundred years? Two hundred years?’

Yes.

‘Which year did you come here? Was it in the 1700s?’

No.

‘The 1800s?’

No.

‘The 1900s?’

Yes.

‘1901? 1902? …’

It was 1911.

‘Were you newly married?’

Yes.

‘What did your husband do?’ They were assuming it was a woman. ‘Was he a farm labourer – a gardener – a shepherd – a smith?’

A smith. He was the village blacksmith.

‘I know what’s coming!’ Pippa put her hand on Morgan’s wrist as though to stay the restless movement of the rods. ‘Oh God, he was killed in the Great War, wasn’t he.’

NO! The rods had crossed, their tips trembling. No, not the war.

‘What was your name?’ Pippa asked the rods direct. Then realised that was stupid. How could they answer her? They could only say yes or no.

My name is Hattie
.

The words were so clear Pippa could not believe Morgan hadn’t heard them too, but he gave no sign. He merely shrugged. ‘We can’t ask that, I’m afraid. So many names to choose from. It would take too long – ’

‘Hattie. Her name was Hattie.’

He frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I heard her …’

He lowered the rods. ‘Speak to her. See if she’ll answer.’

Pippa was staring round the room. ‘Oh my God, is she a ghost? Where is she? I can’t see her.’

‘Ask her.’

She hesitated. ‘Can you hear me, Hattie?’ she whispered. She was suddenly apprehensive and not a little self-conscious.

I can hear you
.

The voice was as soft as the wind across the grass.

‘Were you happy here?’

Oh, I was happy. So happy
.

Behind her, Morgan sat down in one of the fireside chairs. Quietly he laid the rods on the floor at his feet. She couldn’t tell if he could hear the voice or not.

‘How long did you live here?’

A long time
.

Pippa hesitated. ‘Was your marriage happy?’

So happy
.

‘Did you have any children?’

There was no answer. She glanced at Morgan. ‘I think she’s gone.’

‘Maybe.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you mind the idea that you might have a ghost in your house?’

She hesitated, then she shook her head. ‘She doesn’t seem frightening.’

‘I’m sure she’s not. Ask your question again.’

Pippa repeated her question and waited, staring thoughtfully into the fire.

I had ten. Ten beautiful babies. We were a happy family!

‘So many children!’ Pippa exclaimed.

This house loves children!
The voice was growing fainter.

A log shifted, scenting the room with apple smoke.

‘Hattie? Hattie, don’t go,’ Pippa called.

There was no reply.

She sat for a long time without moving, aware that if she spoke she would cry. Morgan wasn’t looking at her. When she glanced at him she saw his eyes were closed.

‘Did you hear what she said?’ she asked at last.

He nodded.

‘She was so lucky.’ She whispered the words to herself.

‘So could you be.’ His eyes were open now and he was watching her with concern.

She shrugged. ‘I was happy when we first came here.’

‘This is about Col?’ Bending down, he picked up the rods.

‘Don’t ask them!’ Pippa spoke more sharply than she intended.

Dropping them at once, he raised his hands in surrender. ‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘Sorry.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘Yes, of course it’s Colin. He loves someone else.’

‘No, Pippa, he doesn’t. He loves you.’

‘You don’t know anything about it!’

‘I do. He told me.’ He stood up uncomfortably and bent to throw a log on the fire.

‘So this was a set up!’ She was furious suddenly. ‘All this. Coming here. Your rods. Your party trick!’

‘No, Pippa – ’

‘Did he hide my cross and tell you where it was?’ Her tears were very close again. ‘Hattie. That was all pretend!’ Suddenly she was furiously angry. And disappointed.

‘No.’

‘Did he tell you what we quarrelled about? But of course he did! That was what this is all about. Children. Keep me occupied. Distract me! Good old Morgan can talk her round.’ She bit back an angry sob.

‘I’m not a ventriloquist, Pippa. I can’t throw my voice. And if I could it wouldn’t be a woman’s. I didn’t know about your cross. All he told me was that you were both very unhappy and he was terrified he was going to lose you.’ Morgan stood up, irritated and uncomfortable. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to become involved in all this. I came because Col sounded so miserable when I spoke to him I thought maybe he could do with a sympathetic ear.’ He paused, seeing her indignation.

‘I’m sorry. I know there are always two sides to every quarrel, but I can tell you honestly that he loves you. He really does.’

She was biting back tears. ‘Maybe he lied to you.’

‘He wouldn’t lie about that.’

‘How do you know?’

He hesitated. ‘I just know. It’s a bloke thing!’ He gave a shrug, half humorous, half rueful.

‘I don’t think so! Blokes are not renowned for their mutual confidences.’ She shook her head wistfully.

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Maybe I should leave,’ he said at last. ‘None of this is my business and I’ve managed to put both my feet well and truly in it! I’m so sorry.’