Emma shook her head. Well, you certainly have an intriguing job! I suppose this is for the telly?
It certainly is. Mark nodded.
I shall look forward to seeing it. She hesitated. It feels really spooky up there, whatever it was I saw.
Mark and Colin exchanged glances. I think so, Mark said quietly.
I try not to. Colin grinned affably. I dont want my hand shaking while Im filming. He paused, his head on one side. I dont suppose you fancy being in the film? You could regale us with what you saw just now.
I dont think so.
OK. He grinned. Worth a try. Here, have some more cake.
Laughing, she shook her head. I must go. Gathering up her bag and map, she picked up the bunch of keys. Thank you for your hospitality. Perhaps if I buy my cottage Ill see you around?
Mark shrugged. Maybe. Good luck with the viewing. I hope it is all you dreamed of. His gaze followed her to the door. Turning to raise a hand in farewell as she closed it behind her she didnt see the wistful appreciation in his eyes or hear Colins resigned chuckle. Give up, Mark! Shes gone.
7
Emma remembered Marks final words as she drew up outside the cottage and switched off the car engine. Dozing in the sun behind its curtain of roses it was pink-washed with black beams. Half the roof was thatched, the other half roofed in old lichen-covered tiles and it stood sideways to the lane at its junction with a smaller, narrower road heading off into the country, set well back behind a wall of overgrown garden. She climbed out of the car and for a moment stood still, just staring. It was enchanting.
The gate was broken, the once-black paint peeling off in brittle flakes, looking too frail to touch. She was reaching out to push it open when she became conscious suddenly that someone was watching her. She turned round. A young woman was standing a hundred yards away holding a bicycle, staring at Emma with undisguised hostility. As she saw Emma spot her, she climbed onto the bike and pedalled off. Emma shrugged and turned back to the gate. If someone else had wanted to buy the cottage they presumably had had time by now to do something about it. So why should they resent someone looking at the place? Cautiously pushing the gate back on its hinges she let herself into the garden. The flowerbeds were alive with bees and butterflies, a mosaic of bright scented colour. It was the cottage of her childhood memories, her fantasies, of the dream she only hazily recalled. The woman in the lane was already forgotten. Taking a step forward, she stopped again. It was strange. Although as far as she knew she had never set foot inside the gate, she did seem to know it all so well. She knew where each flowerbed lay, beneath the tangle of untended shrubs and weeds, she knew where the pump handle was, to the side of the front door, she remembered the medlar tree and the mulberry and the blackthorn and the pear in the hedge, the apples in the back garden and the circular beds separated with large round lumps of stone and flint.
Shaking her head she sniffed and she realised suddenly to her astonishment that she was crying. Brushing her cheek with the back of her hand she took a few slow paces towards the door. Only then did she realise that she had been so eager to climb out of the car and look at the house that she had left the keys on the passenger seat. Retracing her steps, she found them. There were six on the bunch. Two front door keys, a back door key and three shed keys. Selecting the most likely with a shaking hand, she inserted it into the lock. It clicked back easily and she found herself pushing the door open. But she already knew, without having set foot inside, that she was going to buy this house, whatever the cost, financially or emotionally. She couldnt live without it.
In the excitement of the moment she did not give Piers a thought.
The hall was dark. It smelled of rich, sun-warmed wood and dust. She stepped over the pile of circulars and junk mail on the mat and stood, holding her breath.
Welcome home, Emma.
The voice in her head was quiet, but clear. The same voice that she had heard in the shop, surely, but this time it wasnt frightening. It was warm. Enticing. It enfolded her.
She smiled and took a step forward.
I have waited a long time for you to come, my dear.
She frowned. And in spite of herself she shivered. It was her imagination, of course it was, but just for a moment it sounded as though the voice came from outside herself. She glanced round nervously. It was Mark and Colins fault, with all their talk of ghosts. How silly. There was no one there. No one at all.
This is your house now, Emma. Yours and mine. Were going to live here together, Emma. Youll be happy here, Emma.
The voice was inside her head again, almost as though it were part of her. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the voice had gone.
Is there anyone there?
Of course there wasnt. How could there be? She was just being foolish.
There were two downstairs living rooms and a largish kitchen, all heavily beamed. The narrow oak staircase led up from the hall to a landing off which there were three bedrooms, one of which, overlooking the front garden and the lane, was by far the nicest and instantly ear-marked by Emma as her own, and a small bathroom which looked as though it had last been modernised forty years ago. The whole place was dusty and shabby, but it exuded a wonderful feeling of peace and happiness. Upstairs the rooms smelled of flowers. It felt like home.
It is home, Emma!
Again, the strange voice in her head. Seductive. Gentle. Insistent. Her friend.
It is, isnt it! Emma smiled as she discovered she had spoken out loud. Youre right, whoever you are. This is home!
She spent the whole afternoon at the cottage wandering round, sitting in first one room then another, exploring the garden, poking around in the outbuildings, totally and completely happy. The gardens were, if she were completely honest with herself, all that she had ever wanted without even knowing that she harboured any such longing at all: sprawling, untidy, packed with flowers and herbs, begging for someone to come and work on them and love them and coax them back into shape. As she stood at the rear of the cottage, surveying the scene, she could feel every fibre of her being aching to get to work, to plunge her hands into the soil, to pick the few remaining roses and bury her face in the soft damask petals. This place had been a nursery. It had been a business. It would be a way of life to whoever bought it. It could be a herb nursery again. It could be a business again, under her ownership.
It was as she glanced at her watch and realised that she would have to leave to catch the agent before he closed that the panic started and the image of the young woman who had glared at her in the lane returned with full force. That woman did not want her to buy the cottage. Why?
Will Fortingale was just about to go home. His secretary had already left and he was tidying away the papers on his desk when Emma opened the door and came in. He smiled at her wearily. What did you think?
I love it. She put the keys down on the desk.
You do? His eyes brightened perceptibly. Of course, its been empty for a long time. It needs a lot doing to it. The last owner ran the nursery but they didnt live in the house. Theyve got a place up in Bradfield. I think they let the house from time to time to holiday makers, but otherwise its been empty as you probably realised. He paused, sizing her up with a quick glance from beneath his eyelashes. Re-assessing her. Well-heeled, but no fool. They would probably take a lower offer. Its been on the market a while.
Will Fortingale was just about to go home. His secretary had already left and he was tidying away the papers on his desk when Emma opened the door and came in. He smiled at her wearily. What did you think?
I love it. She put the keys down on the desk.
You do? His eyes brightened perceptibly. Of course, its been empty for a long time. It needs a lot doing to it. The last owner ran the nursery but they didnt live in the house. Theyve got a place up in Bradfield. I think they let the house from time to time to holiday makers, but otherwise its been empty as you probably realised. He paused, sizing her up with a quick glance from beneath his eyelashes. Re-assessing her. Well-heeled, but no fool. They would probably take a lower offer. Its been on the market a while.
Who was Liza?
He was taken aback by the question. Ive no idea. Some old biddy who lived there, I suppose. The Simpsons might know. Thats the current owners. He glanced at his watch, torn between wanting to hang on to a potential customer and wanting to lock up and go home.
Emma smiled at him anxiously. Im prepared to put in an offer. Today. Now. You said no one else is interested? But I saw a woman up there watching me. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, still embroiled in her inner turmoil. Her hands were shaking. This was madness but she could feel waves of real panic constricting her chest.
Will Fortingale laughed. Probably a nosy neighbour. To be honest no one has been up there to look for a couple of weeks. There was a flurry of interest after the ad in Country Life, but that fizzled out. He shrugged. Its got too much land for a weekend cottage and not enough for a viable business. Glancing at her, he raised an eyebrow. I presume you want it for the former?
No. Emma spoke without thinking. Id live there permanently She stopped abruptly. That was nonsense. Complete nonsense. How could she live there? Of course it would be a weekend cottage. If that.
She found herself groping for one of the chairs in front of Wills desk. Sitting down, she rubbed her face with her hands. Piers would never agree. She couldnt do this. Not without talking to him. It was madness. Complete madness.
Are you all right? Will was watching her carefully. He had recognised some of her feelings at once; hed seen it all before. The falling in love with a house, the longing, the day-dream-could-happen syndrome. Sitting there opposite him she was within seconds of making some fantasy come true. Usually people hesitated at this point, back-pedalled a bit, played for time. Either they would offer a sum so ludicrously low that there was no chance of it being accepted and their face would be saved, or they would disappear without trace the dream confronted, acknowledged and rejected as impractical.
He walked round to the front of the desk. Can I get you a glass of water? Her face was pasty and white.
She nodded, clenching her hands together and waited as he disappeared into the cupboard at the back of the office which served as a kitchenette and reappeared with a glass and some bottled water.
She drank it greedily and put the empty glass down on his desk. The voice in her head had returned, no longer seductive. This time it was insistent.
Youve got to buy it, Emma. Youve got to. Weve waited too long for this chance. Buy it, Emma!
She took a deep breath. I have to have it. I cant explain it. Its completely stupid. The anguish in her voice was real. What about her job? She loved her job. But did she really enjoy working in the City? Was that going to be her whole life, forever? Until she retired? Was that what she really wanted? Had that voice been her inner self speaking? An inner self who wanted to opt out, to return to that golden time when she was a child, before her father died, when life was full of certainty.
And what about Piers?
She looked near to tears and in spite of himself Will bit his lip in sympathy. Why not sleep on it, Miss Dickson? No one else has made an offer. There he was again, telling her! What was the matter with him? You could safely take a day or two to think about it. Maybe go and see it again? Maybe bring someone for a second opinion? He paused. He did quite badly want her out of the office, he realised suddenly. She was making him feel extremely uncomfortable. Anxiety even fear was coming off her in waves.
She was sitting with her eyes shut and for a moment he didnt think she had heard him until he realised that she was staring at him again. What sort of offer will they accept?
He hesitated, toying with the idea of inflating the price, but something made him hold back. He shook his head remorsefully. Theyd accept fifty K under the asking price. To get rid of it quickly.
All right. Her voice was tightly controlled. Ill go for it. She could afford it. She had her savings and her fathers trust money and he would have approved of this, she was sure of it. He had always been an enthusiast.
But youll want a survey? Will couldnt cope with this spontaneity. It didnt fit the norm.
No. Shaking her head she stood up. She went and stood by the window, gazing out into the street. The empty shop across the road where she had passed her unexpected coffee break that morning was deserted, the front door padlocked. She turned back to Will. Ring them. Now. Check theyll accept it. Her knuckles were white on the edge of his desk. And a deposit. Theyll want a deposit
Not before Monday, Miss Dickson. Will found himself seriously worried now. Honestly. If you want it, its yours. He reached into the file to find the phone number. Glancing up, he indicated the chair. Please, sit down again while I phone them. He smiled at her. Relax. Im sure there wont be a problem.
8
Saturday lunchtime
I suggest we do the interviews upstairs. Colin, having taken the tray back to the coffee shop, was adjusting the lens on his camera. The wall up there would be a good background. The herringbone brickwork or whatever it is.
Joe Thomson, their sound man, had joined them at lunchtime with his daughter Alice who was going to act as production assistant. Joe at forty-two was balding, very tall and thin. His daughter had inherited his height and build. At eighteen she was already as tall as her father. With short cropped hair and studs in eyebrows and nose she appeared far more confident and outgoing than in fact she was. This was her first assignment a gap job before going up to university. Half of her was determined she would not blow it. The other half was scared stiff.
Colin and Mark had been in Manningtree for two days now, staying at a bed and breakfast in Brook Street, and Joe and Alice had joined them after driving down from London. The first day had been wasted for Colin and Mark when the expected key had not been forthcoming and Stan Barker, the owner, had proved extraordinarily elusive. They had only run him to earth that first evening at the pub, so their first visit to the shop had been perhaps appropriately after dark. The atmosphere had been suitably sinister.
After the visit Mark had slept uneasily and woken early. The second night he had been shocked awake by the sound of someone screaming. Splashing his face in cold water he had stood for several minutes in the bathroom of the bed and breakfast, staring into the mirror before he had tiptoed back to his bedroom. The sound had been part of his dream, he knew that. And yet, somehow it had come from outside him. He climbed back into bed and sat there, with the table light on, huddled beneath the bedcovers fighting sleep. When at last he had dozed off he dreamed he was running down a dark road and there were people chasing him. He could hear them shouting, baying like hounds and growing closer all the time. He was still running, out of breath and drenched in sweat, when his alarm clock woke him.