Page 16 of Kindred Spirits at Harling Hall (Ghosts of Rowan Vale #1)

16

Clara must have seen us coming, as she’d thrown open the back door before we’d even knocked. She was probably fortyish, with untidy, red hair and a wide smile. I liked her immediately.

‘You must be Callie. You made it then! Come in, and I’ll put the kettle on.’

I glanced at Lawrie who nodded and motioned to me to follow her. We were led through a large, though slightly chaotic kitchen, into a comfortable living room with squashy sofas and a rather hairy carpet, due no doubt to the most gorgeous dog I’d ever seen who was lying in front of the fireplace, eyeing us with interest.

As I gazed at him appreciatively, he got to his feet and came over to investigate.

‘Oh,’ I said, ruffling his ears with pleasure, ‘aren’t you beautiful?’

Clara beamed at me. ‘He is, isn’t he? That’s Toby. He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog.’

‘He’s very friendly,’ I observed with some relief. He was quite a hefty dog, after all. ‘How old is he?’

‘Four.’ Clara waved a hand round the room. ‘Apologies for the dog hair everywhere but he sheds terribly, especially at this time of year. I’ve practically got my Dyson glued to my hand. You’re Callie Chase, I take it? I’m Clara Milsom. Sit yourselves down. Tea? Coffee?’

‘We can’t stay long,’ Lawrie said gently. ‘We’re here to look at the village.’

I nodded at the framed photos on the walls, showing three lively looking, red-haired, freckle-faced boys. ‘You have three sons?’

Clara beamed at me. ‘We do. God knows where they are at the moment. I can’t keep them indoors when the sun’s shining. That’s Freddie, the youngest. He’s six. And Declan, nine. And then there’s Ashton, our eldest, who’s eleven. He starts big school in September. How old’s your daughter?’

‘Nearly eleven,’ I said, realising that Immi’s birthday was next week and I hadn’t even bought her a card, let alone a present. I’d have to do something about that. ‘She starts at the local primary school on Tuesday all being well. We’re seeing the headmistress on Monday.’

‘Oh, she’s lovely. You won’t have any problems there. Your girl might be in Ashton’s class. I’ll ask him to keep an eye on her, bless her. Well, I won’t keep you waiting any longer. You’re here to see the village and see the village you will.’

I frowned, not entirely sure what she meant, but Lawrie indicated I should once again follow her, so I did. Clara led us back into the courtyard and through one of the outhouses, which contained some bikes and a few tools. We went through another door and stepped out into an amazing new world.

‘Oh, my goodness!’

Whatever I’d been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been this. The entire village of Rowan Vale in miniature lay before me – knee-high buildings complete with the distinctive red-brick mill and its water wheel, the Church of All Souls, and the village green with the old well. A few moments later and I realised even the model village itself was represented, which struck me as incredible.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ asked Lawrie with obvious pride. ‘Built in the 1930s to one-ninth scale, out of real Cotswold stone, and by genuine local craftsmen. You’ll find everything here, Callie. Not just the village, but the entire estate – even the Wyrd Stones and the railway station. Come with me and I’ll show you its secrets.’

Now I understood why we hadn’t needed a car. Lawrie could show me around the whole estate from this very spot. I linked my arm through his when he offered it, and together, we strolled through the little streets and lanes, as he pointed out various buildings.

‘Wait a minute,’ I said, as we paused beside an impressive model of All Souls, ‘is that – no way! Is that Silas ?’

I peered down at the little figure in the dog collar, shaking his fist at unwitting parishioners. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, unable to suppress my laughter. ‘It is!’

‘I’m afraid some of the craftsmen weren’t entirely respectful of our residents,’ Lawrie said dryly.

‘Are any of the other ghosts represented?’ I asked eagerly.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Clara said. ‘Nice to meet you, Callie.’

‘And you,’ I told her warmly. ‘Thank you for making us so welcome.’

When she’d returned to the house, Lawrie squeezed my arm. ‘You see, although I do object to the way some of the ghosts have been depicted here, it’s nevertheless useful to see them all in one place. My legs aren’t what they were so being able to show you around the estate from here is a blessing.’

‘Are you saying all the ghosts are here?’

‘The ones we know about, and the ones who’d arrived when this model was made in the thirties. Unfortunately, there are others on the outskirts of the estate who keep themselves to themselves, as I told you before. I expect they have their reasons. Maybe the modern world is just too much for them. Who knows? However, there are plenty of others who dwell in the village, and they’re depicted here. For instance, do you recognise this one?’

He bent forward slightly and pointed to a figure who was bowing deeply to a bemused looking woman. I squinted at it, realising he had a book under his arm.

I bit my lip as I met Lawrie’s gaze. I knew he didn’t approve of how the ghosts had been depicted but I had to admit to finding it very funny.

‘That’s Walter Tasker,’ I said. ‘I believe he’s carrying a book of Shakespearean quotes.’

‘I know. Isn’t it awful?’ To my relief, Lawrie suddenly chortled with glee. ‘I really shouldn’t laugh. It’s so disrespectful. Goodness knows what Walter makes of it.’

‘He’s seen this?’

‘Oh, they’ve all seen it. We can hardly keep them out, can we?’

‘I don’t get it, though,’ I said. ‘After you made me that offer, I’ll admit I googled the heck out of this place, and there was no mention whatsoever of a model village.’

‘Because it’s not open to the public,’ Lawrie explained.

‘Seems like a waste to me,’ I said. ‘I think the tourists would love it.’

‘This belongs to Jack, not me. Or rather, you. His great-grandfather was one of the craftsmen who built it. I shouldn’t think he and Clara would want tourists tramping around their back garden, especially as they have three young children to consider.’

‘It’s amazing,’ I said, gazing around in wonder. Deep in the woodland at the centre of the model estate, I spotted something through the trees. ‘Are those the Wyrd Stones?’

‘Indeed. Let’s take a closer look.’

We carefully picked our way over to where an incredibly realistic replica of the stones was laid out. I imagined it was a lot easier to find them from our viewpoint than it would be on the ground.

‘I googled these, too,’ I admitted. ‘It’s all very odd, isn’t it? No wonder they’re called the Wyrd Stones.’

He laughed. ‘It’s not Wyrd as in weird, Callie. In this context, it comes from the Anglo-Saxon word for fate. Controlling human destiny.’

I stared down at the barrow in one clearing, where human bones had been discovered. In the corner of an opposite clearing stood a ring of fourteen Neolithic stones, with three separate stones in the middle – a fairly big one with two smaller ones leaning towards it. Hidden between a dense group of rowan trees was a monolith. Looking down on them now, I could see that the three sites were positioned in a perfect triangle.

‘The King’s Court,’ Lawrie said, pointing to the ring of stones, ‘with the Queen Stone and her children in the centre, and there, all on his own, The Penitent King.’ He gazed down at the monolith and sighed.

‘It’s just a story,’ I said, seeing how depressed he looked suddenly.

I’d read all about it online. The stones were the subject of a local myth. Long, long ago in the mists of time, a witch had apparently seduced a king. Despite his wife’s anguish and the pleas of the courtiers, he was besotted, and all set to have the Queen murdered so he could marry the witch.

Then at the last moment, his youngest child, the apple of his eye, brought him to his senses. The King realised what he’d been about to do, declared he’d been enchanted, and instead, ordered the death of the witch.

In a fury, the witch turned first the Queen and her two children to stone, before doing the same to the courtiers who’d surrounded them in a vain bid to protect them. The King was forced to watch, his heart allegedly broken. Finally, he met the same fate, and the witch left him all alone so he could never be with his wife and children again. She’d reputedly sworn that the villagers and all their descendants would be doomed to stay on the King’s estate forever, effectively as trapped as he was. Maybe that was one explanation for there being so many ghosts round here?

‘Who knows?’ Lawrie murmured when I asked the question. ‘It’s a sad story all round, isn’t it? No one really wins. Maybe even the witch only acted so cruelly because her heart was broken.’

‘All because of one man and his lust. He sounds a bit like Henry the Eighth to me. Pity someone didn’t turn him to stone before he started divorcing and beheading his wives. It’s the same old story,’ I added bitterly. ‘Married man fancies a fling, then when his wife finds out, the woman’s branded a witch and the blame lands on her. Nothing changes.’

‘He behaved badly,’ Lawrie agreed, giving me a curious look. ‘Perhaps some things can never be forgiven.’

I wasn’t sure if he was referring to Henry the Eighth or the mythological king, but he was right. Some things never could.

‘Who’s that?’ I’d noticed a figure standing to attention between two trees, not far from the monolith. ‘One of the King’s guards?’

‘Oh no!’ Lawrie cheered up immediately. ‘That’s Quintus Severus, our second-century Roman centurion. Isn’t he splendid? He was one of the army’s North African soldiers, you know. Came to Britain and had a very distinguished career. Quite remarkable what he achieved. Started as an auxiliary, became a Roman citizen and a legionary, rose through the ranks to become a centurion. Served forty years, can you believe?’

‘Forty years? Wow!’

‘After he retired, he was well rewarded. He ended up a wealthy man, living in the colonia, Glevum – the place we now know as Gloucester. His common-law wife was originally from a village a few miles from here.’

‘What’s he doing on the estate then?’ I asked.

‘He was on his way to visit her family. Sadly, he never made it. He died here in Rowan Vale.’

‘How did he die?’

Lawrie hesitated. ‘One rule, Callie. We never reveal the manner of the ghosts’ deaths. Those are their stories to tell, and when they trust you enough to tell you – well, that’s when you’ll know you’ve won them over.’

‘Right,’ I said, suitably chastened. ‘Duly noted.’

‘What I can tell you is that, after a period of mourning with her family, his wife and children returned to Gloucester. Quintus says he never saw them again.’ He sighed. ‘I think perhaps that’s why he stands guard near the King. He can relate to his plight. He’s a most interesting chap. I’m sure you’ll like him, once you can get him to actually talk to you.’

‘So many people to meet,’ I murmured. ‘So much to remember. How am I ever going to do it?’

‘Oh, you’ll manage,’ he assured me. ‘It will take time, but you’ll do it. Believe me, if you forget anything, they’ll be sure to remind you.’

We turned away from the stones and back to the village. I could see the models of Harling Hall, complete with Agnes and Aubrey. There was no sign of Florrie, though.

‘Of course not,’ Lawrie said when I mentioned it. ‘As I told you, this was created in the 1930s. Florence didn’t move here until 1941, bless her. The year I was born, as a matter of fact. Agnes always says she was blessed with two children that year.’ He laughed. ‘There’s the farm, look, and the mill. It was a proper, working mill back in those days, of course. Rather dingy and grubby compared with how it looks today, and no teashop or bakery back then. The teashop started up in 1938, and the bakery not until the late 1950s.’

He continued to show me around, pointing out various sites of interest and filling me in on the ghosts that were depicted, while admitting that several newer arrivals were absent, and that I’d have to be introduced to them personally.

‘That’s the garage,’ he told me, pointing to a building down a lane I’d missed as I’d arrived in the village. It was just before we passed Harling Hall. ‘It’s where the buses live at night, and you’ll see a few vintage cars on the forecourt, too, to give it some atmosphere. There are proper working petrol pumps – no self-service, of course. We have mechanics who fill up your car for you. Sadly, the petrol is charged at today’s prices, whatever the signs say.’ He chuckled.

‘Brodie did mention some cars were allowed in the village,’ I said.

‘It would be impossible and unfair to ban them for locals, particularly as some of our tenants work in other villages or towns,’ he said. ‘However, the cars must be parked on the tenants’ car park here.’ He jabbed his finger towards a patch of land just beyond the garage. ‘See that building there? That’s where visitors can hire mobility scooters or wheelchairs to tour the village. And we provide taxis with disabled access that can be booked at the railway station, as unfortunately our vintages buses can’t take wheelchairs.’

‘I was going to ask you about that,’ I said, relieved. ‘Good to know.’

I also learned that the station porter who I’d nicknamed ‘Perks’ was yet another ghost. His name was Percy Swain, and he’d died in 1905. Apparently, he still took his role very seriously and was extremely peeved by Ronnie’s and Bill’s behaviour. I’d have been, too, if I’d had to deal with them every day. Even in miniature the two of them were engaged in fisticuffs on the station platform.

‘And here,’ Lawrie said proudly, ‘is the cinema.’

‘There’s a cinema?’ How had I missed that? Visions of cosy, popcorn and nacho-filled evenings watching the latest blockbuster with Immi filled my mind. Something normal for us to do!

‘Of course.’ He indicated a stone building tucked away in a small cul-de-sac almost directly opposite the mill complex. ‘There. It’s marvellous. We have a wonderful collection of 1940s movies, and usherettes serving orange squash and those little tubs of ice cream in the intermission.’

‘Great,’ I said, my heart sinking. I could well imagine Immi’s reaction if I invited her to watch a 1940s film with me, with orange squash as an incentive.

‘Did Clara and Jack both grow up in the village?’ I asked, as we finally prepared to leave Honeywell.

‘Jack did, but oddly, he met Clara when they were both on holiday in Scotland. What are the chances? Love at first sight. Very romantic. Clara – well, she’s a good sort. I was delighted when she and Jack married. She fitted in beautifully, and it’s good to see Honeywell House full of children again.’

‘Was Jack brought up at the house?’

‘He was. His family have been tenants here for as long as anyone can remember.’

‘And does it have any other occupants?’ I asked.

He smiled. ‘There doesn’t appear to be a ghost at Honeywell House at all.’

‘Lucky Jack and Clara then,’ I said. ‘Can either of them see any of the ghosts in the village? Well, Jack at least.’

I wasn’t sure, but I thought Lawrie hesitated before answering. ‘Er, no. They can’t.’

There was one thing I still wanted to know as we headed back to the church where we’d be able to hail the bus.

‘I know this sounds crazy,’ I said, ‘but you don’t happen to know of an American ghost around here, do you?’

He stared at me. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Well,’ I confessed, ‘Immi saw her, back when we were on the school trip. I’m not sure where she was but they talked a bit and she told Immi how she died and – hey, didn’t you say that meant a ghost trusted you? If they tell you how they died, I mean.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Lawrie looked amazed. ‘And she confided in Immi? How very odd. That’s Harmony. Harmony Hill. You may have heard of her?’

I frowned. The name was ringing a bell, but I couldn’t think where from. ‘Not really,’ I admitted, ‘but she told Immi she’d drowned.’

‘So she did, bless her. She was a Hollywood actress,’ he explained as we sat down on a bench in front of the church.

‘Hollywood? What on earth was she doing here?’

‘It’s a very sad story,’ he murmured, glancing round as if to check she wasn’t there listening. ‘Harmony was over here filming in 1946.’

‘In this village?’

He shook his head. ‘No, about twenty miles away, but for some reason, she’d taken herself off and spent the entire day drinking at The Quicken Tree. No one wanted to refuse her, what with her being a Hollywood star, so sadly she got very drunk indeed. They found her body in the Faran the next morning. It caused a furore in the papers at the time. Apparently, she had quite a reputation in Hollywood, and some of the reporters seemed to believe her fate was inevitable.’

‘Poor thing,’ I said. ‘What a way to end up. I do vaguely remember hearing about her. Why were you so surprised that I mentioned her?’

‘Harmony is one of those ghosts who keeps herself very much to herself,’ he explained. ‘She’s been seen in the village occasionally, but we have no idea where she stays. If any of the ghosts know, they’re saying nothing. As for conversation – she simply doesn’t talk. Not to those of us who are living anyway. Not to anyone, as far as I know. It’s a shame but it’s her decision. It’s extraordinary that she talked to Immi. But,’ he added, brightening, ‘perhaps it’s a good sign. Perhaps she’s finally beginning to accept that being around people isn’t as bad as she thinks. Maybe she’ll be seen more frequently from now on. Oh, I do hope so. She must be terribly lonely.’

I had a feeling that loneliness was one of Lawrie’s biggest fears, and I was suddenly grateful that Brodie had decided to leave with him. I wouldn’t want him to be alone, and he was far too stubborn to stay on. I also realised I was going to miss him. I hadn’t known him long, but I was already growing fond of him. I wished things could have been different.

‘Lawrie,’ I said slowly, ‘I really do need to talk to you.’

‘Oh yes, so you said.’ He got to his feet, waving his stick in the air, as the bus trundled up the road towards us. ‘When we get back to the Hall, Callie. We’ll talk then.’

Inwardly sighing as I got on the bus behind him, I thought determinedly that we certainly would. I couldn’t put this off any longer.