Page 7 of Kindred Spirits at Harling Hall (Ghosts of Rowan Vale #1)

7

‘Is it okay if Violet stays for tea, Mum?’

‘Of course, if that’s okay with her mum.’

‘Yeah, she said it’s fine.’

I pulled a box of fish fingers out of the freezer drawer and shut the door, then turned to my daughter a little worriedly. ‘Will fish fingers, chips and peas be okay?’

‘Cool.’ She beamed at me and ran back to her room, where she and Violet were avidly watching some American children unboxing the latest must-have toys on YouTube.

I really should stop worrying so much, I thought, as I spread the fish fingers on a baking tray. Immi never acted as if I wasn’t good enough, so maybe she genuinely thought I was.

Just because she’d never had a dad in her life didn’t mean I’d failed her, or that I was weird or abnormal. Just because Violet’s mum had to take care of her so much while I was at work. Just because we didn’t have much money to spare for luxuries, or even some basics. Just because I saw ghosts…

I closed my eyes, wondering for the thousandth time if I’d made the right choice. Things could have been so different. We could have swapped this two-bedroomed flat for a manor house in the beautiful Cotswolds. I could have left my job as a carer to be – what? The owner of a living history village? How could that possibly be true?

Sometimes, I wondered if I’d dreamed the whole thing. Our visit to Rowan Vale last week had already taken on an unreal quality. And yet I knew it wasn’t a dream. If it was, I was still dreaming, because these last few days I’d seen… things. People. People I knew couldn’t possibly be there because no one else around me saw them. It seemed whatever had happened to me in the Cotswolds had reawakened something, and I had no idea how to put it back to sleep.

I’d barely slept for the last few nights, lying awake worrying. Worrying about a future where I saw dead people. Worrying about how to keep that terrible burden from Immi. Worrying that I’d slip up and scare her; that she’d tell Violet or her mum what was going on.

And worrying, most of all, that I’d just turned down the one and only chance I’d ever get to make a better life for myself and my daughter. She’d loved it in Rowan Vale. How could she not? All that fresh air and glorious countryside. All those beautiful honey stone buildings. Had I been mad to walk away from such an opportunity?

While the tea cooked, I made myself a coffee and sat down at the tiny kitchen table, looking around the small and basic kitchen in my rented flat and wondering what it would be like to live somewhere as grand as Harling Hall, with all those rooms, all those grounds, and my very own housekeeper.

I felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of Sir Lawrence. His stricken expression when I’d politely but firmly turned down his offer was enough to keep me awake at night, even if I hadn’t had all the other stuff to worry about.

Would he find someone else able to represent the interests of the ghosts? Surely, I couldn’t be the only person who could see them all? Of course he’d find someone else. He had all the residents of Rowan Vale keeping an eye out for a suitable candidate, after all. And his grandson Brodie.

Brodie. Hmm. I couldn’t deny that, in those long sleepless nights, his gorgeous face had flashed through my mind a few times. Honestly, he was the first man I’d fancied in years and wasn’t it just typical that I’d choose someone like him! It wasn’t as if he was a nice person. I was, I told myself firmly, very lucky that I wouldn’t have to see his sullen expression again.

Besides, I’d done what was right for Immi. That should and would be my consolation. I couldn’t have her growing up in a place where the presence of ghosts was normal and acceptable. Where her mother was – what? A glorified ghost wrangler? How would she explain that to her friends at school?

And that was another thing. She’d have to leave the school she was at and leave Violet behind. It wouldn’t be fair.

No. I sipped my coffee with sudden relief. I’d made the right choice.

Collecting two plates, I called to Immi that the meal was almost ready, then began to dish up.

Hearing the girls’ laughter from Immi’s bedroom, I sighed, realising they hadn’t heard me calling or they’d chosen to ignore it. I put the plates and cutlery on the table then hurried down the hallway to Immi’s room, where the door was half open.

I was just about to walk in when I heard her say, ‘Don’t be stupid! I couldn’t tell Mum. She’d have a fit.’

I froze. What couldn’t she tell me? What had she been up to? My mind immediately conjured up the most horrific and terrifying scenarios, and I gripped the door handle so tightly, I was amazed it didn’t come off in my hand.

I should have walked into her room and demanded to know, of course, but I couldn’t make myself do it. What if she refused to tell me? What if she made up some story to cover her tracks? I had to know the truth.

Instead, I did the only thing a concerned and responsible mother could possibly do.

I eavesdropped.

‘So, what did she say?’ Violet asked eagerly.

‘She asked me not to tell anyone I’d seen her because it would attract reporters to the village,’ Immi said. ‘And I told her no one would believe me if I did anyway, cos no one ever does. I said most people I’ve ever told have called me a liar, so she needn’t worry about that.’

‘And what did she say to that?’

There was a loud sigh. ‘She looked really sad. She said, “People can be very cruel,” and then, guess what?’

‘What?’ Violet asked eagerly.

‘She turned to black and white! You know, like the photos they had in the olden days, like when your nanna was little? And ,’ she added smugly, ‘she was American.’

‘ American ?’ Violet sounded awestruck. ‘But what was an American doing in Rowan Vale?’

There was a long silence, and it occurred to me that the fish fingers, chips, and peas would be growing colder by the second.

I was about to knock on the door and breeze in, all innocent, when Immi said something that stopped me in my tracks.

‘I don’t know what she was doing there. But I do know how she died, cos she told me.’

I forced myself to throw open the door and say cheerily, ‘Hey, girls, didn’t you hear me? Your tea’s ready and it’ll be getting cold.’

Not as cold as the blood in my veins, though, which I was pretty sure had turned to ice at Immi’s words.

‘Sorry, Mum.’ Immi jumped off the bed and, giving Violet a warning look, she filed past me to the kitchen, her friend trailing behind her.

That evening, with Violet safely back home, Immi and I curled up on the sofa in our pyjamas, drinking hot chocolate while watching one of her favourite films on the television. And all the while, the question I longed to ask her gnawed away at the pit of my stomach, yet I said nothing.

Eventually, she kissed me on the cheek and said goodnight, then went to bed, while I sat, staring unseeingly at an old episode of Vera , wondering how the heck I fixed this mess.

If I’d heard her conversation innocently rather than earwigging at the door, it would have been easier, I thought crossly. But then, would it? Would there ever be an easy way to ask my precious, innocent, normal ten-year-old daughter if she’d inherited this curse? And if she had, why hadn’t I known about it? Why hadn’t she told me? It didn’t make sense.

I tried to tell myself I’d misheard her, or that I’d got it wrong, or that she’d been telling stories to impress Violet. But I knew, deep down, that she hadn’t been. And I hadn’t misheard her.

My daughter had seen a ghost, and I hadn’t the foggiest idea how to deal with that.