Page 2 of Kindred Spirits at Harling Hall (Ghosts of Rowan Vale #1)

2

The little crimson and ivory vintage bus trundled along the country lanes, and I leaned back in my seat and stared out of the window in delight. My shoulders dropped and the muscles in my neck began to relax. Whatever that weird feeling had been at the station, I was fine now. How could I not be with views like these?

The glorious Cotswolds. Cornflower-blue skies over rolling, green hills, pastures where sheep, cows, and horses grazed, and verges bright with daffodils adding a splash of sunshine to the landscape.

‘Are you all right, Callie?’

I turned to Diana, surprised. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

She shook her head. ‘Just wondered. You seemed a bit tense when we left the station.’

Tense hadn’t been the word. I wondered what word would do justice to the feeling I’d experienced as I’d stood on the platform with those two men. For a moment there, I’d felt real fear, and a weird sensation of familiarity as something stirred within me. Something I used to know. But what?

Then again, I’d always had an overactive imagination. One of my clearest memories of Mum had been her telling me off for it.

‘Stop daydreaming, love,’ she’d told me repeatedly. ‘Start living in the real world. Be normal .’

Mr Gaskill leaned towards us from his seat across the aisle. ‘What do you think to this bus then? Fantastic, isn’t it? A 1946 Leyland Tiger. I checked up on it when I came here to do a site visit.’

Diana rolled her eyes and nudged me.

‘Very cute,’ I agreed, ignoring Diana. Mr Gaskill was right. This vintage bus was like something you’d see on a period drama. I could imagine it trundling through the Dales on All Creatures Great and Small . There was even a conductor wandering up and down the aisle with his ticket machine, having a friendly chat with the kids.

‘And wasn’t the station great? Those characters in their First World War outfits, and the vintage tea shop! There’s another one in the village, you know, with a World War Two theme. It’s right by the—’ He broke off as, unaccountably, I shivered again. ‘Are you all right?’

‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I was just wondering whether to report those two actors who were fighting on the platform to their boss.’

Mr Gaskill’s eyes widened. ‘What two actors? Are you sure they were fighting? Maybe it was part of a performance.’

‘It wasn’t,’ I assured him. ‘I don’t want to get them into trouble but it’s not right. They must have seen the kids arrive on the platform and they should have shown more restraint, don’t you think?’

‘Certainly. Is that what you were doing then? We wondered what was keeping you.’

‘Yes. What do you think? Should I report them?’

‘I suppose we ought to. It could have got out of hand. You know how fights can escalate, and it would have been a disaster if the children had seen it or been hurt by one of them. Imagine if they went home and told their parents!’ He shuddered at the horror of it all. ‘Good grief, that would be all we needed. No, there’s no question about it, Callie. You should definitely report them.’

‘Who to, though?’

‘I suppose Sir Lawrence Davenport himself has overall control. After all, it’s his estate.’ He frowned. ‘The booking was made through his office at Harling Hall, so there must be a secretary or a manager or someone. I’ll email them when we get back.’

I wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. What if Sir Lawrence sacked the actors? I’d hate to have that on my conscience. I knew all too well what it was like to be broke. Of course, they needed to understand that their behaviour was unacceptable, but I didn’t want them to end up in the job centre because of me.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, deciding it would be better if I spoke to someone in Sir Lawrence’s office in person so I could stress I wasn’t looking for him to fire them. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll go to Harling Hall today. I was the one who saw them fighting, after all.’

‘Ooh, are we here, sir?’

There was a chorus of excited cries as the bus turned right off the main road and we spotted a large sign at the roadside which read:

Historic Woodland, Heritage Site, Rowan Vale Living History Village

I suspected the excitement was because the kids were dying to stretch their legs and run around a bit, rather than because they were thrilled to be visiting what was, essentially, a huge museum.

‘Settle down, please,’ Mr Gaskill said loudly. ‘We’re nearly there, so I’m sure you can sit quietly for a little longer.’

The bus trundled along a long, straight road, edged on both sides by woodland, which Mr Gaskill told us, rather pompously, was called Quicken Tree Avenue and ran for almost two miles. ‘Quicken Tree,’ he added, ‘is an old name for the rowan. We’ll be turning off for Rowan Vale village about halfway down, though.’

‘How come there are cars on this road?’ Diana asked suddenly. ‘Thought they were banned?’

Mr Gaskill gave the patient sigh of one who’d already explained all this to us. ‘It’s the actual village of Rowan Vale where cars aren’t permitted, and there are no coaches allowed on the estate at all – hence the coach park at the railway station. There’s a large car park just past the turn-off to the village for visitors who haven’t travelled by train.’

‘Oh,’ Diana said. ‘I get it.’

Shaking his head slightly, Mr Gaskill leaned towards me again. ‘If you want to visit the estate office first, it’s fine by me, but I’ll still put a complaint in an email,’ he said in a low voice, before settling back in his seat.

The bus turned down a lane on the left-hand side of the road, and I spotted a sign which read:

Rowan Vale Village. Permitted Vehicles Only.

After a few moments, the woodland gave way to open fields and farmland, then some buildings came into sight, and I spotted a church steeple in the distance.

The murmuring from the children grew louder and I noticed Mrs Ledbury shrugging on her jacket in preparation.

‘Look, we’re passing Harling Hall now.’ Mr Gaskill nodded at the window. ‘You can pop by later, when the rest of us have our lunch. That okay?’

‘Will do,’ I said. Who needed to eat anyway?

I peered out of the window, trying to see Harling Hall. I’d skimmed over its description on the estate website but knew it had been built in the late sixteenth century by the Harling family, who owned the village at the time.

The house was surrounded by a stone wall, and the bus passed the gates far too quickly for me to catch more than a brief glimpse of multiple chimneys before it was lost to my sight. I supposed I’d see it up close soon enough.

When I went to cause trouble for two young lads.

And got them fired.

Possibly.

Oh heck, I was a horrible person. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut after all.

* * *

We’d been in Rowan Vale for just over two hours, and I’d already fallen in love with the village, which was breathtakingly beautiful with its honey stone cottages, thirteenth-century church, and stunning surroundings.

A golden wall of daffodils graced the banks of the River Faran – a shallow body of water, more like a wide stream than a river – which ran through the centre of Rowan Vale, criss-crossed at regular intervals by little stone footbridges. I only wished I could have explored the whole village in depth, but we had a schedule and there was to be no deviation.

The school excursion was focused on two places: Rowan Farm, a real working farm on the outskirts of the village, run as it would have been during the Second World War, and Ashcroft Mill, a former working mill which had now been turned into a museum of life in Rowan Vale over the centuries. It had a whole section devoted to the 1940s, as well as a vintage wartime teashop and a bakery in the building attached to it. Both places, it was felt, would aid the class with their project on home life during the war.

If there was enough time after their tour of the museum, the children would be able to visit some of the shops in the village, which were replicas of ones that used to serve the villagers in bygone eras.

Rowan Farm consisted of a beautiful old farmhouse set in acres of prime Cotswold land. It was, as one of the ‘land girls’ who worked there explained to the children, a mixed farm, growing crops as well as raising animals.

It had been fun to find two young women dressed in dungarees, sturdy shoes, and dark-green jerseys, playing the role of land girls with obvious relish. The one who spoke to the kids introduced herself as Erin and seemed more than happy to explain about life on a farm in the 1940s. It was good to see Immi listening avidly to her stories.

As well as being shown around the farm, we were taken into the farmhouse itself, which had been decorated exactly as it would have been during the Second World War. There was even a radio playing old music, with the occasional news broadcast interrupting the songs.

The farmer’s wife, who introduced herself as Betty, was busy baking bread, and told us all how lucky she felt that, unlike the poor unfortunates in the cities and towns, they were never short of food at Rowan Farm. She made the children laugh as she told them about the day the two land girls had arrived at the farm from the city, ‘dolled up to the nines with their fancy nail polishes and their hair all done up, and not a clue about life in the country.’

I noticed the rapt expression on Immi’s face as both Erin and Betty told them about the two German prisoners of war who worked there too. She was fascinated by this, and she wasn’t the only one. The boys clearly perked up at the thought of German prisoners. I had to admit, Erin and Betty were very convincing. I almost believed the stories were true myself.

We wandered round the farmhouse, noting the old-fashioned decor and furniture, examining the ration books and exclaiming at how little people had to eat in those days. We were then escorted to the adjoining dairy, where the other ‘land girl’, Rissa, was busy churning butter. After that, the class headed outside again.

We led the children to one of the old barns, which had been turned into a sort of dining room. Union flag bunting had been strung from the beams, and there appeared to be a sort of stage at one end of the building. Picnic tables had been set up for visitors to sit and eat their packed lunches, and we quickly settled the children into their seats. Mr Gaskill and Mrs Ledbury seemed pleased that the class were far more engaged with the visit now than they had been when we arrived.

Just as I was about to dip into my backpack for my lunchbox, Mr Gaskill suggested I might like to slip away to Harling Hall and report his two badly behaved employees at the station to the estate office.

Despite my rumbling stomach, I agreed. Far better that I explained what had happened to the manager, rather than Mr Gaskill sending him an official email. At least I could try to ensure that the two young men were reprimanded but didn’t lose their jobs.

‘Could you tell Immi where I am if she asks? Although don’t mention the fighting soldiers. Just say I’ve gone to have a quick look around the grounds of the manor house. I doubt she’ll ask too many questions.’

‘Of course, no problem. Let me know the outcome, though I’m sure a strongly worded email from the school will ensure they take this seriously if appropriate action isn’t taken. I’m quite certain Sir Lawrence wouldn’t want the reputation of his business damaged.’

Feeling thoroughly uncomfortable, I headed through the farm gates and wandered along the lane back towards the village, the distinctive red-brick chimney of the eighteenth-century mill and the spire of the church my points of reference.

The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. I hated the idea of getting anyone into trouble, especially two young men who couldn’t have been more than twenty, if that. I’d have to be very diplomatic with whoever dealt with staffing issues and, while I realised that Ronnie and Bill – if those were their real names – needed to be reprimanded, I really hoped the punishment wouldn’t be too harsh. I wouldn’t have thought employment was that easy to come by around here.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed I was being followed at first. I gradually became aware of a hum of voices and some giggles, and as the sound permeated my thoughts, I turned to see who was following me.

Two young boys and a girl – probably between six and ten – were creeping behind me and judging by their expressions, they were plotting mischief. As I frowned at them, the girl stuck her tongue out.

I decided to ignore them and carried on walking, but within seconds, the children had run past and began walking backwards in front of me, pulling faces and mocking me.

I stopped and put my hands on my hips. ‘Okay, that’s enough of that, don’t you think?’

The children straightened, a look of shock on their faces. The boys glanced around as if checking for someone, then turned back to me, open-mouthed. One of them, the eldest, nudged the girl.

‘She’s talking to us, Florrie.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ The girl sounded dubious. ‘Are you?’

‘I don’t see any other children being rude to me.’ I glanced at my watch. Ten past twelve. ‘Why aren’t you in school?’ I asked, noting at the same time that they were all in costume. The boys were in grubby, white shirts that looked far too big for them. They wore equally shabby, buff-coloured trousers but my biggest concern was that only the older boy was wearing shoes – heavy, brown ones with a low heel that appeared slightly too large for him. The younger boy was barefoot. Both had matted, light-brown hair that fell almost to their shoulders.

The little girl looked very different. She had long, black hair in two plaits, and was wearing a cotton print dress, a clearly hand-knitted cardigan, and – of all things – a pair of black wellies. She was clearly supposed to be from the 1940s or 1950s.

Okay, so maybe their parents worked for Sir Lawrence and had dressed their children in costume for the fun of it, but this was surely taking things too far? The little boy shouldn’t have been running around without shoes on. And why weren’t they at school? Unless their Easter holidays started earlier than the ones in our area.

‘Don’t go to school,’ the girl said, tilting her chin defiantly at me.

The boys stared dumbly at me, their eyes wide. They looked as if they needed a good bath.

‘What do you mean, you “don’t go to school”?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘Are you home taught?’

‘We just don’t go. Don’t ’ave to. You can’t make us.’ She grinned widely, revealing a gap between her two front teeth, her eyes flashing a challenge. ‘Besides, there’d be no point. These two can’t even read, so they wouldn’t learn much, would they?’

‘They can’t…’ I frowned. ‘Are you having me on? Where do you live?’

‘Mind your beeswax,’ the girl said. ‘Got nuffink to do with you.’

‘If you’re not at school, and these boys can’t read or write, not to mention one of them hasn’t even got any shoes on, then it’s got everything to do with me. Whether you realise it or not, you need protecting.’

The younger boy’s face crumpled, and I crouched down, feeling guilty that I’d obviously scared him. ‘Don’t look so worried. You’re not in any trouble. But I would like to speak to your mum and dad.’

Looking into his big, brown eyes, my heart thumped, and, for some reason, I shuddered. The prickling sensation I’d experienced earlier at the station was back again, along with something else. Something I couldn’t quite catch hold of and wasn’t sure I wanted to.

The girl yanked the little boy away and said fiercely, ‘Clear off and leave us alone. I’m going to tell Lawrie about you. He’ll sort you out good and proper.’

With that, the children ran away, leaving me bewildered and not a little worried.

Lawrie? Could that, by any chance, be Sir Lawrence? Well, that had made up my mind once and for all. Things were very wrong in Rowan Vale, and I was going to have strong words with the manager about his staff, not to mention the welfare of their children.

As I carried on towards the Hall, I wondered, with a sudden shiver, why I couldn’t get one name out of my mind. The boys had called the girl Florrie, but no one had mentioned what they were called. So why was David echoing through my head?