Sands of Time (26 page)

‘History of Architecture.’ He frowned. She had touched on forbidden territory.

She retreated to more neutral ground. ‘So, you would know if we have to report it or anything?’

He relaxed. ‘Yes, I would know.’

Encouraged, she dared to ask the question she had been brooding on. ‘I am going to be nosy. Can I ask why, if you have an architecture degree, you are working on my kitchen?’

He shrugged. ‘It’s a job.’

‘Not a very academic one.’

‘I’m not an academic.’ He picked up the trowel with which he had been digging. ‘Did you mention a cup of tea?’

‘You know I did not.’ She smiled again. ‘But I can take a hint.’

It was half past two in the morning when she was awakened by the sound of shouting. Struggling up from an exhausted sleep, she stared round the room, disorientated. It was silent now, but she was sure the noise hadn’t been part of her dream. Climbing out of bed, she tiptoed to the door and listened. The cottage was completely silent. Outside the open window she heard the call of an owl hunting along the hedge behind the hollyhocks, then all was silent again as the smell of roses drifted up to her.

Pulling open the door as silently as she could, she stepped out onto the landing and crept on bare feet to the top of the stairs. The tiny hairs on her arms, she realised suddenly, were standing on end and she shivered in spite of the warmth of the night.

She could see the moonlight shining from the window of the dining room across the black chasm of the floor and out across the hall towards the staircase. The silence was suddenly oppressive. She took a deep breath and, plucking up courage, forced herself to go down. At the bottom she stopped again, staring into the room as she realised that there was an indistinct figure standing by the fireplace. She stared at it in astonishment.

‘Edwin?’ Her voice came out as a breathless croak.

The figure turned to face her and she was conscious of the pale, drawn face, gentle grey eyes and the worn brown jerkin. Then, as she watched, the figure seemed to fade and disappear. Not Edwin, but someone so like him.

For a moment, total silence still surrounded her, then she became aware of the usual cottage noises. The clock in the hall was ticking, she could hear a tap dripping from the kitchen and suddenly, from the window, came the pure delicate notes of a nightingale.

Abruptly, she sat down on the stairs and buried her face in her arms. She was shaking but it was, she realised, with shock rather than fear. There had been nothing at all frightening about him.

‘I’m dreaming.’ She spoke the words out loud. Taking a deep breath, she stood up and went to the door of the dining room. It was completely empty, the moonlight lying like a silver carpet over the dust and bricks and soil and scatter of tools. She took a few steps into the room, looking round. The figure had been standing in front of the fireplace, staring down into the earth in front of him. She looked down as well. There was nothing there.

When Edwin arrived next morning she was in her office on the telephone. She stood looking down at him as he walked up the path from his van, her concentration only half on what she was saying. Without realising it, she shivered.

When she finally went downstairs, half the floor had been uncovered.

‘Good morning.’ He smiled at her without stopping work.

‘Edwin.’ She hesitated. The face in her dream – if it was a dream – was still haunting her, but how could she admit to dreaming about someone who looked so like him?

‘How long do you think it will take?’ she finished lamely.

‘Not long.’

And with that she had to be content.

Three nights later she was woken up again by the sound of laughter and shouting from downstairs. She stared round in the darkness. There was no moon tonight and she could hear the gentle patter of rain on the roses below her window, filling her room with the sweet scent of wet earth. She lay still for a few seconds, her heart thumping with fear, then slowly and unwillingly she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

At the door she paused and frowned. She could smell beer. The sound of talk and laughter grew louder and she could hear the clinking of glasses coming from the dining room.

Creeping downstairs, she tiptoed across the hall and, taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door.

The silence was immediate and total. The room was empty.

She stepped in and looked round. It was as Edwin had left it. The floor was finished and neatly swept, the walls stripped and the window frames repaired. All that remained to be done was to fix the chimney and paper the room before the arrival of the Aga and the sink and the old dresser she had found in the antique shop in the village.

Reaching for the light switch, she turned it on. The smell of beer had completely gone.

‘Do you think Fen Cottage was ever a pub?’ she asked Julie when she met her in the village shop that morning. Edwin had gone to fetch a load of bricks.

‘I’ve never heard it was. Why?’ Julie was stacking her purchases into a basket.

Roz shrugged. ‘Just something I heard.’

‘It was an inn, yes,’ Edwin said later. He sat back on his heels for a moment, a wedge of pale lime mortar on his trowel. ‘A couple of hundred years ago. Why?’ He looked at her hard.

She shrugged. ‘I just wondered.’

When she heard the sounds again that night she almost didn’t go down. She lay for five minutes, her head under the pillow, then reluctantly she climbed to her feet.

This time the noise did not stop as she pushed open the door. The room was full of people. She saw the smoke from the fire, and from the men’s clay pipes. She saw the bar and the plump red-faced woman pulling beer from a barrel set up behind it. She saw the pretty fair-haired barmaid sashaying between the drinkers, squealing as they flirted with her, slapping back their impertinent hands. And she saw the man she had seen before.

He was standing, his back to the wall near the roaring fire, his eyes fixed on the girl. As Roz watched, he slipped his hand into his pocket and brought something out. A small silver charm on a thin, filigree chain. She saw him catch the girl’s hand as she whisked past him and she saw him speak, his longing clear in every movement of his body as he shyly pressed the charm into her hand. As the girl glanced down at it she saw the love and hope in the young man’s eyes.

Then the girl laughed. She tossed her pretty curls and flounced her hips and tucked the charm back into his pocket.

He looked stunned. As Roz watched, he stepped away from the wall, his face scarlet with embarrassment as the jeers of the other drinkers told him they had missed nothing of the exchange. With one quick gesture he snatched the charm out of his pocket and threw it into the fire, then he turned and walked out of the door into the lane.

As the door banged shut, Roz found herself standing in the silent cottage staring into an empty room.

That evening, Bob dropped by to lend her a catalogue of light fittings and they went out onto the terrace to have a glass of wine. ‘I hear you were asking about the house’s history,’ he said. ‘You were right, it was a pub. And there is a story to go with it. One of the village men went away to London and made his fortune. He came back and fell in love with the barmaid here. She rejected him and the story goes he went out and hanged himself.’ He took a sip of wine and then caught sight of her face. ‘Sorry, Roz. Perhaps you would rather not have known.’

‘No.’ She turned away so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes. ‘No, I’m glad you told me.’

The next morning she asked Edwin if he had heard the story. As he turned away from repointing the chimney, she watched his face intently. He stood still for a moment staring into the distance, then slowly he shrugged. ‘Yes, I think I might have heard it somewhere.’

And that was all.

But that evening he came out to the terrace where she was reading. There was something in his hand.

‘I found it under some mortar.’

The silver charm was tarnished, almost black. For several moments she looked at it, then slowly she held it out to him again. ‘I think it’s yours.’

Their eyes met.

‘That is what you came back for, isn’t it?’ she said.

He looked down at it and slowly he nodded. ‘You say he looked like me?’

‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘She didn’t deserve his love. She wasn’t worth it,’ she insisted, more vehemently than she’d intended.

‘I’ve dreamed about this house since I was small.’ Glancing up he gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I don’t believe in reincarnation or anything like that. It’s just that sometimes, if you let yourself listen, you can hear the echoes, feel the ripples of sorrow as they reach you over the years. I thought studying architecture would take away the pain, would make the past rational, cool, sensible. And that building would bring it under control, make it safe.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘When I heard you wanted a builder, it just seemed like fate. Like something I’d been waiting for.’

‘And now you’ve found it,’ she said gently, reaching out to touch the fragile silver where it lay on his palm and feeling the warmth of his hand as it slowly curled around hers.

The Room Upstairs

‘Andy, I’ve found somewhere to live!’ The tousled red hair was if anything more vibrant than usual.

Andy looked up from his books at the whirlwind hovering by his desk in the library, her arms full of files and notes, canvas bag dangling from her shoulder. He shrugged a weary hello. ‘Can we afford it?’

Getting kicked out of their digs ten days before the end of their first term at university had been the last straw in a pretty foul week.

Jill nodded vigorously. ‘Big attic room. A bit far out of town, but walking distance. Just.’ She grinned. She held out two large keys. ‘Coming to see it?’

‘Now?’ He glanced down at his desk with regret. It was warm and secure in the library. Outside there was a gale blowing, sleet hit the windows like machine-gun fire and the thought of a long hike through the dark filled him with about as much enthusiasm as facing a firing squad. Still, it had to be done. Out at the end of the week their landlord had said and Andy knew why. The bastard had found someone who would pay more, no questions asked about leases and things.

Jill walked fast, head down, her face screwed up against the cold, her collar high around her ears. He wondered what she would do if he put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her close. Just for warmth of course. They were room mates out of necessity. Or fate. Not lovers. He had met her on the doorstep of the digs back in October, and they had viewed the double room together as rivals. Both were seeking someone to share with. They tossed for the room. He won. He chose her. Simple as that. No sex. No dirty socks on public view. Her rules. Fine by him.

He glanced around him as they walked. The streets were empty in the rain, viscous puddles reflecting the street lights. From time to time he could see a Christmas tree in a window. Otherwise the houses had withdrawn behind their curtains. He half wished he could reach for Jill’s hand. Just for company. In a lonely world. But that would be against the rules too.

As though half sensing his thought she grinned at him from the shelter of her collar. ‘I did say it was a long way.’

‘How did you hear about it?’

‘Chap I met at the Union.’ She was vague about the detail. ‘Said he’d been going to stay there himself but he’d found somewhere better.’

‘Sounds as though it’s not much cop.’

‘Cheap though.’ She fished a piece of paper out of her pocket and stopped for a minute under one of the street lights. A rain drop hit the paper and smudged the ink. ‘Next left. Then about half a mile.’

‘Half a mile!’ He was appalled.

She caught his eye and shrugged again. ‘Cheap!’ They said it together and laughed.

It was hard to find. The number had fallen off the gate and the front path was overgrown. They worked it out by the numbers on the other houses on either side. They were small and neat, with well-manicured gardens. Number 40 was overgrown, the paint on the door blistered. And it was huge.

‘There’s no one in.’ They stood side by side in the gateway looking at the darkened windows. ‘Shit!’ Andy was shivering with cold. ‘Now what?’

‘We’ve got the key. The chap I spoke to said the room was at the top. He said he never saw the people who live here at all.’ Jill looked down uncertainly at the keys in her hand. They were tied together by a piece of stringy red ribbon. ‘Come on, let’s check it out, then we’ll go and get some fish and chips at that place we passed about ten miles back.’ She was trying to jolly him along. And herself. ‘It’s not as though we’ve much choice. This end of term there’s nothing left in town.’