led her over the shingle and across the road. The Old Manse stood as she had seen it the day before, blind with an empty, pathetic haughtiness at the top of the slope. ‘Come on,’ he said as she hesitated.
‘I don’t . . .’ said Jessica.
‘Come on.’
Reluctantly she followed him up the path across which trailed bare briars and strands of honeysuckle. She felt uneasy, with a fugitive sense of disloyalty – as though she was trespassing not on the property of the bloke from London who came down with a crowd in the summer for the sailing but on Harry’s memories.
‘It feels as though no one’s been here for years and years,’ she said. They stood on the gravel in front of the porch, and then looked through the windows.
‘Sitting room,’ said Jon. ‘Looks as though they haven’t made many changes here since the olden days. There’s a three-piece suite.’ He went to the window. ‘Dining room,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go round the back.’ The small yard behind the house was paved with slate. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Not so deserted after all. Look . . .’ There was a row of wet, bare footprints leading to the red-painted back door.
‘Oh,’ said Jessica. ‘Let’s go . . .’
‘It’s only local kids,’ said Jon, laughing. ‘Tough little brutes – going round with no shoes on in this weather.’
Jessica shivered at the mere thought – at least she told herself that was why she was shivering. ‘We’ll be late for lunch,’ she said.
‘It’s not midday yet,’ said Jon and he laughed again. Jessica wished he wouldn’t laugh so much. It sounded out of place in the sorrowful, dignified hush.
‘What?’ she said.
‘It’s not even midday,’ said Jon. ‘Two minutes to midday.’ It seemed to Jessica that they had been out together much longer than that.
‘Well, I want a drink,’ she said, and she thought in her inconsequential way of the noon-day devil who slingeth arrows about.
On the way back she noticed a white cottage down near the shore’s edge. ‘I suppose that’s where the professor lives,’ she said.
Jon, who had been humming a tune from
The Phantom of the Opera
, stopped in mid-cadence. ‘Prat,’ he said venomously. Jessica, unperceptive as ever, heard in this not the sourness of jealousy but only the echo of what appeared locally to be received opinion.
The cottage looked neglected; a few tiles missing from the roof and the garden fence half flattened. Jessica had often wondered whether she was rich enough to invest in a small villa in Tuscany, or a farmhouse in Provence, or even a cottage in the Shires, but now she wondered whether it was not unkind and thoughtless to buy a house only to leave it alone much of the time and fail to look after it properly. She wondered whether it even made economic sense and whether it was not wiser to take your ease in small hotels, which if not perfect, did not require you to re-tile the roof or maintain the grounds.
They were still talking about ghosts in the bar. ‘. . . and one room which was always freezing cold even in the middle of summer,’ Anita was saying.
‘Probably rising damp,’ said Eric.
‘Don’t you believe in ghosts?’ asked Anita.
‘I’ve never seen one,’ said Eric.
‘No, but do you believe in them?’ insisted Anita.
‘Since I’ve never seen one, I don’t see why I should,’ said Eric.
‘You’ve never seen an electric current but you believe in them, don’t you?’ said Anita.
‘That’s different,’ said Eric.
‘There is undoubtedly a phenomenon known as projection which under certain circumstances might appear to take on corporeal substance,’ said Ronald.
Anita wasn’t sure what he meant by this, but it sounded as though he was on her side, and she warmed to him again.
‘It need not even necessarily be seen as a function of hallucination,’ added Ronald.
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Eric as he caught sight of Jessica, ‘there was a phone call for you earlier. They
‘I don’t . . .’ said Jessica.
‘Come on.’
Reluctantly she followed him up the path across which trailed bare briars and strands of honeysuckle. She felt uneasy, with a fugitive sense of disloyalty – as though she was trespassing not on the property of the bloke from London who came down with a crowd in the summer for the sailing but on Harry’s memories.
‘It feels as though no one’s been here for years and years,’ she said. They stood on the gravel in front of the porch, and then looked through the windows.
‘Sitting room,’ said Jon. ‘Looks as though they haven’t made many changes here since the olden days. There’s a three-piece suite.’ He went to the window. ‘Dining room,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go round the back.’ The small yard behind the house was paved with slate. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Not so deserted after all. Look . . .’ There was a row of wet, bare footprints leading to the red-painted back door.
‘Oh,’ said Jessica. ‘Let’s go . . .’
‘It’s only local kids,’ said Jon, laughing. ‘Tough little brutes – going round with no shoes on in this weather.’
Jessica shivered at the mere thought – at least she told herself that was why she was shivering. ‘We’ll be late for lunch,’ she said.
‘It’s not midday yet,’ said Jon and he laughed again. Jessica wished he wouldn’t laugh so much. It sounded out of place in the sorrowful, dignified hush.
‘What?’ she said.
‘It’s not even midday,’ said Jon. ‘Two minutes to midday.’ It seemed to Jessica that they had been out together much longer than that.
‘Well, I want a drink,’ she said, and she thought in her inconsequential way of the noon-day devil who slingeth arrows about.
On the way back she noticed a white cottage down near the shore’s edge. ‘I suppose that’s where the professor lives,’ she said.
Jon, who had been humming a tune from
The Phantom of the Opera
, stopped in mid-cadence. ‘Prat,’ he said venomously. Jessica, unperceptive as ever, heard in this not the sourness of jealousy but only the echo of what appeared locally to be received opinion.
The cottage looked neglected; a few tiles missing from the roof and the garden fence half flattened. Jessica had often wondered whether she was rich enough to invest in a small villa in Tuscany, or a farmhouse in Provence, or even a cottage in the Shires, but now she wondered whether it was not unkind and thoughtless to buy a house only to leave it alone much of the time and fail to look after it properly. She wondered whether it even made economic sense and whether it was not wiser to take your ease in small hotels, which if not perfect, did not require you to re-tile the roof or maintain the grounds.
They were still talking about ghosts in the bar. ‘. . . and one room which was always freezing cold even in the middle of summer,’ Anita was saying.
‘Probably rising damp,’ said Eric.
‘Don’t you believe in ghosts?’ asked Anita.
‘I’ve never seen one,’ said Eric.
‘No, but do you believe in them?’ insisted Anita.
‘Since I’ve never seen one, I don’t see why I should,’ said Eric.
‘You’ve never seen an electric current but you believe in them, don’t you?’ said Anita.
‘That’s different,’ said Eric.
‘There is undoubtedly a phenomenon known as projection which under certain circumstances might appear to take on corporeal substance,’ said Ronald.
Anita wasn’t sure what he meant by this, but it sounded as though he was on her side, and she warmed to him again.
‘It need not even necessarily be seen as a function of hallucination,’ added Ronald.
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Eric as he caught sight of Jessica, ‘there was a phone call for you earlier. They
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