embarrassed that her face had betrayed too much. ‘One of those things one pursues frenziedly in one’s youth and then life and perhaps a certain cynicism kick in and the books get put away.’ She gave a rueful smile.
Ghosts had been her father’s passion and she had grown up enjoying his stories, his theories, the frissons they had shared on ghost-hunting trips. She had never been quite sure whether she believed in them herself, but the study of phenomena of a ghostly kind had absorbed her for a long time. Those books had been left with her mother. Graham had not liked ghosts. They gave him the creeps and therefore could not be discussed even in the abstract. Ghosts and meditation and psychology and anything he considered even remotely out of the ordinary on the paranormal scale of things had been out of bounds.
Sian nodded sagely. ‘It’s sad how one’s early enthusiasms wane.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘That’s Sue’s strength and blessing. She has retained her childlike passion for her herbalism.’
That was how Andy and Sue had met originally. Sue was an old friend of Graham’s, a plant contact and fellow author. Andy and she had liked each other instantly and become great friends. Although they had only ventured here, to Wales, once, Sue used to stay with them whenever she was forced to visit London and they had exchanged many long phone calls over the years.
Andy gave a wistful smile. ‘I’m surprised she can bear to leave her garden. Especially to me. I paint flowers, I don’t grow them.’
‘You won’t have to. She has someone to help her; I would imagine he will still be coming?’ Sian glanced up at her again. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’
‘No.’ Andy felt ridiculously cross. She had thought she would be here alone; safe. Unbothered.
‘Maybe I got it wrong.’ Sian was backtracking hastily again. She seemed to be able to read Andy’s every thought.
‘No. I hope she has. I am not fit to be trusted with her garden. When the subject came up she just said it could look after itself for a while.’ It was Andy’s turn to study her visitor’s face. ‘Was it a herbal potion she was making for you?’
‘For my dogs.’
‘If I find anything, I’ll let you know.’
Sian seemed to take the words as a dismissal. Draining her glass, she stood up. ‘I should be on my way. It will start getting dark soon and I’ve a long walk home.’
Andy watched from the window as the woman ran down the steps and out of sight. The rain shower was over as soon as it had come. Sian’s dogs, she saw, had been waiting for her outside, a border collie and a retriever. She wondered what Culpepper made of them.
Andy decided against taking over Sue’s bedroom even though it had obviously been made ready for her. She and Graham had shared that room on their holiday and she didn’t think she could bear to sleep there again, alone. A small neat indentation on the counterpane showed where the cat had made himself comfortable earlier in the day, unaware that his beloved Sue was about to abandon him for a whole year. Instead she chose one of the spare rooms. It was in the oldest part of the house, dark with ancient beams, its window mullioned in grey stone, facing across the valley where the sun was setting into the mist. There was a brightly coloured Welsh blanket on the bed and a landscape on the wall of the hills she could see from the window, the racing shadows picked out in vermilion and ochre and violet. She looked round the room with a sense which she realised after a moment was a feeling of coming home. The room felt relaxed and safe; it smelt of wood and something indefinable – herbs and polish and maybe, a little, of dust. Circling once more, and giving a final glance out of the window, she laid her hand on one of the crooked beams in the corner, then she trailed her fingers across the ancient stones of the wall. What memories they must hold.
It took for ever to lug her cases and boxes upstairs and spread some of her belongings on the chest and along the shelves. Finally she threw her jacket on the chair, an almost symbolic gesture to take possession of the room before she went back downstairs, hungry for the first time in ages. Tomorrow she would drive down to Hay and stock up the fridge. For now Sue had left her milk and bread and a pasty with salad. Outside it was dark. She drew the curtains and turned on the light. Behind her the cat flap opened and closed with a swish and a click as Pepper pushed his way through and leapt onto his chair. He sat and gazed at her. She felt that mentally at least he was tapping his wristwatch to make sure she knew that the hour for supper was approaching. She smiled at him broadly. ‘I think we’re going to get on fine, Culpepper, my friend. But if I make mistakes, you will have to tell me.’
On her past experience with cats she was sure he would.
She tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Climbing out of bed she pushed open the small casement in the mullioned window. Through it she could hear the sound of the brook hurtling over the rocky ledges at the side of the house and cascading down towards the road. Staring out into the dark she was very aware of how black the night was. She was used to streetlights and the headlights of cars probing through the curtains and crossing the walls of the bedroom she’d shared with Graham.
She had left her door open a crack so that Pepper could come and sleep on her bed if he felt so inclined, but when she turned off the kitchen light he had stayed where he was on the chair beside the Aga. If she had been at home in Kew she would have crept out of bed, careful not to wake Graham and gone out into the garden. She could do that now but she felt strangely intimidated at the idea. The garden here was huge and full of noise and wind and water; she hadn’t got her bearings there yet.
Climbing back into bed she sat, propped against her pillows, her hands clasped around her knees, gazing into the darkness. In her mind she let herself travel back to Kew. She knew she shouldn’t. She should put Kew behind her, but she couldn’t stop herself. She pictured herself opening the French door which led from the kitchen and walking down the short flight of wrought-iron steps onto the decking of the terrace where they so often used to sit in the evenings or at lunchtime to drink wine and eat and talk and laugh.
The garden below the terrace had a pale reflected light from the lamppost in the road, diffused through the branches of the trees. It smelt fresh and cool and it was very still. In her imagination she stood for a long time looking round, listening. In the distance she could hear the faint drone of traffic on the nearby A307 and, once, the closer sound of a car engine as it turned into their road. It stopped nearby and after a minute a door slammed. She took a step or two onto the lawn, which was wet with icy dew. It soaked into her shoes. She was aware, as she always was at night, of how close Kew Gardens was, dark and deserted behind its high walls. From there sometimes she could hear the call of owls.
Behind her a light came on in the house. It was in one of the spare rooms on the first floor. She watched as the curtain twitched and moved and the silhouette of a head and shoulders appeared peering down into the garden. How strange. Was Rhona living there? She shivered and in her imagination she turned away and strolled towards the high wall at the back of the garden where a collection of shrubs and climbers wove their magic of autumn colour, leached to silver by the lamplight.
She heard the window behind her rattle upwards. ‘Who’s there?’ Rhona’s voice echoed into the silence. ‘I can see you!’
The vision vanished and abruptly Andy opened her eyes. Her memories had been interrupted and spoilt by the intrusion of Rhona’s harsh voice; Rhona had no place in her daydreams, Rhona whom she had only ever met once before that awful day when she had walked into Andy’s life and blown what was left of her composure apart. She was someone best forgotten as soon as possible.
Andy grabbed her dressing gown and made her way downstairs and into the kitchen.
