Page 25 of We Live Here Now

24

Emily

The graveyard is beautiful in an eerie way, not quite overgrown but not overly tended either, with trees that must dapple sunlight beautifully on the graves in summer. I’d tried to get into the church but the door was locked, and despite knocking I got no answer, so instead of browsing parish records I found myself wandering among the gravestones. Some are so old they’re worn back to nothing, and others are shiny new marble with gold inlays and fresh flowers. I loiter and look at the names and imagine all the stories I’ll never know between the birth and death dates of each one.

I trace my fingertips across one uneven stone, battered by the elements and green with years of moss, and wonder about the person it belongs to. All this death is making me gloomy but also making me think more rationally. Sally and Joe didn’t have any weird experiences in the house, and the graveyard and memory of my time in the hospital, and the loss of the cluster of cells that was the baby, are very much reminding me that when you’re dead, regardless of my supernatural leanings, you’re probably just dead. There probably are no ghosts. And given that I’m the only one experiencing anything strange in the house, which option would a sound mind believe—that Larkin Lodge is haunted or that my recovering mind is playing tricks on me?

It’s only as I head back along the narrow path to the gate that I recognize a name on one of the newer stones, a shiny marble built to last. Gerald Carmichael. 1938–2004. Most beloved perfect husband. Loving and kind.

I pause and stare at it. Gerald Carmichael. That handsome man who used to live in the Lodge. I look to the grave beside it, expecting to see Fortuna’s, but there’s nothing. Was she buried somewhere else?

“Well, hello.”

It’s Paul, the vicar, pulling his earbuds out.

“I didn’t realize you were here. I knocked.”

“Sorry, I was listening to an ABBA marathon while sorting out the store cupboard. Didn’t hear a thing.” He pauses. “Is everything okay?”

“I was just curious to see the parish records. I wanted to dig around in the past of the house. That sort of thing.”

“Ah, so you do think there is a ghost.” His face crinkles with a smile, but it’s a gentle expression; he’s not laughing at me.

“Not really. I’m just curious about who’s lived there before us. I figured it might be fun to put together a potted history of the place. I saw Sally and Joe, and she said to try here.”

“Did you go to the studio while he was working?”

“Yes.” There’s a pause and our eyes meet, and we both burst into laughter.

“Quite the avant-garde couple, aren’t they?”

“I’m not going to lie,” I say, “I didn’t know where to look when I saw his models. And Sally’s so chill with it. They’re very nice though.”

“They are.” He looks down at the grave. “Ah, you found an old resident then?”

“I recognized his name from a newspaper article. I’m surprised his wife’s not buried here too.”

“I’d be more surprised if she was,” Paul says. “She’s in her nineties but she’s still alive. She’s in Willow Lane House—a retirement home—about ten or fifteen miles from here. I think she moved in not long after Gerald died. I obviously didn’t know them when they had the Lodge, and then they lived in London for a long time. Didn’t come back here until Gerald was sick. I’d only just taken up my post and she would come and sit in the church occasionally, but we weren’t friendly as such. She just found the church comforting.”

I look back down at the stone. “All these graves. So many stories.”

“And every one a unique blessing.”

Clouds are forming overhead and an icy wind suddenly blasts, unexpected, through the barren branches of the trees around us. My leg throbs and I pull my coat tighter around me before leaning heavily on my stick, the pain immediately exhausting me. It comes like that, in waves, and I feel as if I’m made of lead.

“You should get home.” Paul takes my arm and helps me toward the gate on the slightly uneven path. “Get warm. As for the parish records, there are some online but nothing that goes back too far. Most were lost in a fire. Electrical one around 2005. We had to get half the interior rebuilt. But at least it’s not so cold in there now.”

I’m just starting the car engine when he trots over and knocks on the window. “Oh, and I meant to say. The Lodge is a big house, and if you need someone to help with the cleaning I can send Mrs. Tucker along. She does mine twice a week. She’s very reliable. And the vicarage is just at the next turn on the lane from you. On the corner. You can probably see it from your house. She could come after she does mine.”

“Great. I’d love that.” It is great. Freddie’s rubbish at staying on top of stuff and there’s no way I can do much more than wipe down the sides and do the laundry. Plus, however much I try to rationalize away the strangeness in the house, I’ll be glad of the company.