Page 15 of Kindred Spirits at Harling Hall (Ghosts of Rowan Vale #1)

15

It took a fair old amount of time just to get to the bottom of the drive. I hadn’t noticed how infirm Lawrie was, but then I realised I’d only really seen him sitting down. It dawned on me that he wasn’t the powerhouse of energy I’d presumed him to be. No wonder everyone had been so anxious to find a replacement for him. They’d clearly understood that, before too long, running the estate was going to be far too much for him.

I was beginning to worry about how long this tour of my ‘domain’ was going to take, but to my surprise, we stopped just outside the gates of Harling Hall, and Lawrie leaned against the wall with some relief.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘Maybe we should go back? I can get the car.’

‘No need, Callie,’ he said with a smile, and I turned my head to see the old Leyland bus trundling down the road towards us.

Lawrie waved his walking stick in the air, and the bus drew to a halt outside the gate.

‘Wow,’ I said, impressed, as we settled into our seats, surrounded by excited tourists. ‘I didn’t know there was a bus stop here.’

‘No stop,’ he admitted, as the bus set off again, ‘but if anyone wants to get on or off at the Hall, they only have to ask the conductor or wave the bus down.’

‘Good to know,’ I said. ‘I should have brought a notebook or something to make notes, shouldn’t I?’

‘You won’t need one,’ he assured me. ‘You can’t learn all you need to know about the village from notes. You have to see it. You have to feel it. And you will.’

It was good to be back on the old bus again. It felt like a lifetime ago since I’d travelled on it in April.

‘There are four buses working in the estate,’ Lawrie murmured. ‘Two cover the inner circle and two the outer circle. This route runs from the train station to the village centre. The other runs from the garage to the outer boundaries on the other side of the estate, via the woodland. It takes you as close to the barrow and stones as it’s possible to get by vehicle. After that, it’s a short walk through the woods to where they’re situated.’

I wasn’t certain he’d be up to that, but I was momentarily distracted by the snatches of conversation I could hear from the other passengers. They were clearly already enchanted by the views of the village, and there were lots of appreciative murmurings about the pretty buildings and stunning scenery.

I felt a sudden and unexpected rush of pride as the realisation hit me that they were talking about my village. My home. I had to swallow down tears as the emotion threatened to overwhelm me.

I turned to find Lawrie smiling knowingly at me. I blushed but he kindly didn’t say anything. He really didn’t have to.

We all got off the bus at the central stop, opposite the church. The tourists quickly divided into two groups. One group rushed to explore the grounds and interior of the Church of All Souls, while the others headed straight to the riverside where they cooed over the clear water and the little stone bridges that crossed the Faran.

They were soon taking photos of The Quicken Tree on the other side of the river. Its golden stone walls could be glimpsed through a boundary of rowan trees, and I mused that if they thought those views were pretty, they were going to be in for a treat when they walked a little further along, rounded the corner and discovered the entrance to the pub.

‘Shall we?’ Lawrie asked. For a moment, I’d entirely forgotten he was there.

‘Sorry,’ I said, but he chuckled.

‘It’s a marvellous feeling,’ he said, as we began to walk, ‘when you realise how much other people appreciate the beauty of your home. It was different for me. I was born and brought up here. I always knew it was my home, but for you it’s all new.’

‘I still can’t believe it’s real,’ I admitted. ‘Sometimes, I think I’m dreaming. Oh!’

I stopped as an old man with grey hair and a dog collar came rushing through the lych gate of the church, waving his hands as if trying to shoo the tourists away. They took no notice of him whatsoever.

‘Who on earth is that?’ I asked. As the icy tingles began in my shoulders, I said, ‘Or who was he anyway?’

‘Now, Callie, we never talk about our residents as if they no longer exist. They’re as real as you or I. The fact they’re not actually breathing is neither here nor there. That splendid chap is Silas Alexander. Died in 1927, aged seventy-five. Used to be the vicar of All Souls. Sadly for him, he’s witnessed a lot of change over the last century that he finds, er, difficult.’

At that moment, Silas spotted us and shook his fist at us alarmingly. ‘I blame you for this, Davenport. You and your family! Turned the place into a wretched circus!’

Lawrie smiled and waved at him and Silas gave a snort of rage and stomped back into the church.

‘Good grief,’ I said. ‘Who’s rattled his cage?’

‘Silas doesn’t approve of the tourists,’ Lawrie explained. ‘More than that,’ he added with a twinkle in his eye, ‘he definitely doesn’t approve of Amelia Davies. Our current vicar.’

‘Oh? Oh .’ I nodded. ‘I see. No doubt Silas doesn’t approve of women vicars in general, right?’

‘To put it mildly.’ Lawrie chuckled. ‘He’s quite a forceful character, as you can probably see.’

‘Are they all this bolshy?’ I asked worriedly, as we passed The Quicken Tree and walked along the picturesque Faran Lane. ‘Apart from Aubrey, who seems lovely, I’ve had nothing but grief. Agnes is a real tyrant, and Florrie seems to be heading the same way. Then there’s Bill and Ronnie, fighting on the station platform. I mean, I get that it must be quite traumatic to find yourself dead, but even so.’

‘Oh, their bark is worse than their bite,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Bill and Ronnie wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if they didn’t have their feud to keep them going. Florence is just a child, after all. As for Agnes – you might find this hard to believe, but deep down, she has a heart of gold. Life wasn’t easy for her, you know, and her afterlife is her opportunity to assert herself for once. I daresay Silas has a gentler side, although it must be said he hasn’t so far shown it.’

He laughed. I took comfort from the fact he obviously wasn’t intimidated by any of the ghosts, however badly they behaved. And really, if I’d found myself trapped forever as a spirit, unable to touch or taste anything, or make myself seen or heard to almost every other person, I’d probably have got quite bolshy too. I supposed I should be a bit more generous and understanding towards my ghostly tenants.

We passed a couple more little stone bridges where several people were holding up their mobile phones to film the scenery, exclaiming loudly as a family of ducks paddled towards them. On the opposite side of the river was the village green, surrounded by more beautiful buildings – a variety of Victorian-themed shops and cottages.

There was an old well in the centre of the green, dating from the fourteenth century, and lots of tourists were gathered round it, snapping away with their cameras. Others were excitedly photographing the staff who, dressed in Victorian finery, were parading outside the shops.

‘Is it always this busy?’ I asked, noting how many people were crowding the pavements and both sides of the riverside, peering through the shop windows, or just sitting on the grass – many of them eating and drinking.

‘In late spring and summer, yes,’ Lawrie said. ‘It quietens down in autumn and winter. After Christmas, it’s almost like a ghost town.’ He gave a whoop of laughter, and I thought it would be quite nice to see Rowan Vale out of season.

I noticed we were walking more slowly now, and I eyed Lawrie with some concern. ‘You really don’t have to do this,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Mia could give me a tour of the village.’

He looked surprised. ‘Why on earth would you want that? Mia can’t introduce you to any passing ghosts and— oh, good afternoon, Walter.’

He nodded courteously as an elderly man wearing an embroidered jacket with a broad linen collar and ribbon ties, and a pair of breeches, walked towards us.

‘Sir Lawrence.’ The man gave a theatrical bow. ‘How are you this fine day?’

‘Very well, thank you. Walter, allow me to introduce you to Miss Callie Chase. She is the new owner of the Harling Estate. I expect you’ve been waiting to meet her.’

Walter’s eyes gleamed and the icy feeling in my shoulders returned.

‘Indeed I have!’ He bowed a second time. ‘It is an honour to meet you, Mistress Chase. I expect Sir Lawrence has already told you a good deal about me.’

‘Not yet, Walter,’ said Lawrie hastily. ‘I’m just showing Callie the village and explaining a few things to her. There’s a lot for her to take on board, as I’m sure you can imagine, so I’m taking my time.’

‘Of course,’ Walter said gravely. ‘“Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.”’ He beamed at me. ‘That was one of mine, you know.’

I had no idea what he was talking about, so I just nodded and smiled.

‘If I can be of any assistance, do let me know,’ Walter told Lawrie. ‘I am more than happy to help, and I have a great deal of knowledge and experience, so?—’

‘You certainly do,’ Lawrie said, ‘and I will bear that in mind. Thank you, Walter. Now, we really must get on.’

‘Of course, of course. “Let every man be master of his time”,’ Walter said, nodding furiously. ‘That was one of mine too,’ he added. ‘I well remember the day I said it to him. I was?—’

‘We must go,’ Lawrie interjected. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again very soon. Good day to you.’

‘Good day, Sir Lawrence. Mistress Chase.’

Lawrie took my arm, and I swear he walked away from Walter at twice his usual speed, stick or no stick.

‘Who on earth was that?’ I asked, hardly able to suppress a giggle.

Lawrie rolled his eyes. ‘That was Walter Tasker,’ he said. ‘Don’t get me wrong – he’s a decent man, but an insufferable bore, with delusions of grandeur. He died in 1612, aged seventy-one, and if I told you he once taught at The King’s New School, would that give you a clue?’

I shrugged. ‘Nope. Sorry.’

‘The King’s New School in Stratford-upon-Avon?’

I gasped. ‘Shakespeare?’

‘That’s right.’ Lawrie sighed. ‘Walter was one of Shakespeare’s schoolmasters, and he’s convinced that he taught “Young Will” everything he ever knew about great writing. Not only that but he takes credit for many of his quotes.’

‘So that’s what he meant.’ I grinned. ‘Completely wasted on me. I know very little about Shakespeare.’

‘I’m sure Walter will love to educate you,’ he said wryly. ‘We’re going down here now, Callie,’ he added, nudging me slightly so I turned left off Faran Lane and we walked down Honeywell Way, a narrow, winding road edged on one side by a tall hedge, but with a few scattered dwellings on the other.

Lawrie led me to the second of those. It was another gorgeous stone house, larger than the cottages I was more familiar with in Rowan Vale and set back from the roadside with a five-barred gate leading into a big courtyard.

‘Posh,’ I observed. ‘Who lives here then?’

‘Oh, the house may be big,’ Lawrie remarked, ‘but don’t worry. Clara and Jack aren’t posh. They’re lovely people. Jack’s most probably at work. He’s a train driver,’ he explained. ‘Drives one of our steam engines. Clara’s expecting us, though.’

‘Jack? The chauffeur?’

‘That’s right! I’d forgotten you’d met him. Lovely chap.’ He pushed open the gate and ushered me into the courtyard.

What, I wondered, was I about to see now?