was as if music were playing, setting her inner ear a-throb, rhythms syncing with the tides of her body. But there was no sound, just a burst of clarity.
‘We should go out there,’ she said.
The French windows opened by themselves. A shimmering curtain hung above the crazy paving. Tim ran out first, dragging Jordan by her hand. They plunged through the curtain as if it were a waterfall, and joined the others in the orchard, the others who were indistinct but definite.
Every song Kirsty had ever loved ran through her head, from ‘Right Said Fred’ through ‘Hey Jude’ and ‘Anarchy in the UK’ to ‘Common People’ to ‘Becoming More Like Alfie’. Her husband got up, and pulled back her chair as she stood.
‘I think we should join the children, darling,’ he said, offering his arm.
‘I love,’ she said, beginning the sentence she had clung to for so long it had lost all meaning, then tripping as her tongue ran up against a barrier in her mind.
‘No,’ she said, concentrating to make the barrier go away. ‘I do, Steven. It’s back again. It was here, at the Hollow, waiting.’
He brushed her face with whisper kisses.
‘I love you,’ she said, and her heart was free.
He scooped her up like a bride in a cartoon, and carried her through the shimmer into the orchard.
* * *
J ordan woke up in the orchard with the dawn, face glazed with dew, her brother curled up against her tummy. She blinked in the light, expecting the hammer of a hangover headache to strike, but there was nothing. She could think and breathe and see clearly.
Tim mumbled and rolled up into a ball.
She stood. Sparkling cobwebs hung between the rushes. She had wound up making her bed by the stream, in a natural depression. Dawn-warmth smoothed away her momentary goose-flesh.
Mum and Dad were here too, somewhere. She wasn’t worried about them.
It was like the first healthy day after a bad cold.
The morning after the best-ever love.
Everything was fresh. Her mouth tasted different, cleaner, sweeter. She ran her hands through her hair and found it finer, untangled, heavier.
She was comfortable in herself. She didn’t feel fat or scrawny.
If only Rick were here.
The longing was a worm in the apple. Soon, he would share this with her, with the family.
Last night, she had danced.
Now, she wanted breakfast. When was the last time she had eaten anything before midday?
The smell of fresh bread emanated from the kitchen, and the soft whistle of an old-fashioned kettle.
Tim snapped awake.
‘Come on, soldier,’ she said. ‘Reveille.’
Mum leaned out of the kitchen window, beaming and beckoning.
‘How many eggs?’ she shouted.
‘Infinite eggs,’ Jordan shouted back.
‘I’ll try my best.’
Jordan and her brother entered the house by the kitchen door.
* * *
W ith the morning post was a package, addressed to ‘The Naremore Family’. Recognising the tiny hand script, Kirsty claimed and opened it. Why was Vron’s first communiqué since the Weezie book addressed to the family rather than her? Did that mean anything? Should it worry her? She didn’t think anything could worry her any more.
Jordan ate like a soldier and amused Tim with her chatter. Steven watched the kids, not realising his wife was watching him. She saw his laughter lines crinkle, recognised those same lines in Jordan, even in Tim (who took after her). The magic was all around. She was safe.
Inside Vron’s packet was another book. A battered paperback with a fiery spectre on the cover.
Ghost Stories of the West Country
, by Catriona Kaye. Volume 46 in The Dennis Wheatley Library of the Occult. A peek inside showed a charity-shop stamp and a column of crossed-out prices which began with an optimistic £2.50 and sank to a despairing 45p – which was exactly the original recommended retail price listed on the back cover. This 1976 edition, with an introduction by Wheatley, was a reprint of a book first published in 1962.
Though she’d never
‘We should go out there,’ she said.
The French windows opened by themselves. A shimmering curtain hung above the crazy paving. Tim ran out first, dragging Jordan by her hand. They plunged through the curtain as if it were a waterfall, and joined the others in the orchard, the others who were indistinct but definite.
Every song Kirsty had ever loved ran through her head, from ‘Right Said Fred’ through ‘Hey Jude’ and ‘Anarchy in the UK’ to ‘Common People’ to ‘Becoming More Like Alfie’. Her husband got up, and pulled back her chair as she stood.
‘I think we should join the children, darling,’ he said, offering his arm.
‘I love,’ she said, beginning the sentence she had clung to for so long it had lost all meaning, then tripping as her tongue ran up against a barrier in her mind.
‘No,’ she said, concentrating to make the barrier go away. ‘I do, Steven. It’s back again. It was here, at the Hollow, waiting.’
He brushed her face with whisper kisses.
‘I love you,’ she said, and her heart was free.
He scooped her up like a bride in a cartoon, and carried her through the shimmer into the orchard.
* * *
J ordan woke up in the orchard with the dawn, face glazed with dew, her brother curled up against her tummy. She blinked in the light, expecting the hammer of a hangover headache to strike, but there was nothing. She could think and breathe and see clearly.
Tim mumbled and rolled up into a ball.
She stood. Sparkling cobwebs hung between the rushes. She had wound up making her bed by the stream, in a natural depression. Dawn-warmth smoothed away her momentary goose-flesh.
Mum and Dad were here too, somewhere. She wasn’t worried about them.
It was like the first healthy day after a bad cold.
The morning after the best-ever love.
Everything was fresh. Her mouth tasted different, cleaner, sweeter. She ran her hands through her hair and found it finer, untangled, heavier.
She was comfortable in herself. She didn’t feel fat or scrawny.
If only Rick were here.
The longing was a worm in the apple. Soon, he would share this with her, with the family.
Last night, she had danced.
Now, she wanted breakfast. When was the last time she had eaten anything before midday?
The smell of fresh bread emanated from the kitchen, and the soft whistle of an old-fashioned kettle.
Tim snapped awake.
‘Come on, soldier,’ she said. ‘Reveille.’
Mum leaned out of the kitchen window, beaming and beckoning.
‘How many eggs?’ she shouted.
‘Infinite eggs,’ Jordan shouted back.
‘I’ll try my best.’
Jordan and her brother entered the house by the kitchen door.
* * *
W ith the morning post was a package, addressed to ‘The Naremore Family’. Recognising the tiny hand script, Kirsty claimed and opened it. Why was Vron’s first communiqué since the Weezie book addressed to the family rather than her? Did that mean anything? Should it worry her? She didn’t think anything could worry her any more.
Jordan ate like a soldier and amused Tim with her chatter. Steven watched the kids, not realising his wife was watching him. She saw his laughter lines crinkle, recognised those same lines in Jordan, even in Tim (who took after her). The magic was all around. She was safe.
Inside Vron’s packet was another book. A battered paperback with a fiery spectre on the cover.
Ghost Stories of the West Country
, by Catriona Kaye. Volume 46 in The Dennis Wheatley Library of the Occult. A peek inside showed a charity-shop stamp and a column of crossed-out prices which began with an optimistic £2.50 and sank to a despairing 45p – which was exactly the original recommended retail price listed on the back cover. This 1976 edition, with an introduction by Wheatley, was a reprint of a book first published in 1962.
Though she’d never
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