Pinions Of Gold

Chapter 2

TWO

TEALBY, WEST LINDSEY, LINCOLNSHIRE. 2021 AD

The Land Rover pitched and righted as it swept through Beck Hill Ford, the road crossing the River Rase at one of the two fords in the village. They drove past the village shop, the Vintage Tea Rooms and the King’s Head, the thatched and reputedly haunted ancient public house, out of the picturesque settlement. Their driver, Sir John, pointed out each of the features as they drove by, with a touch of pride in his home county. Jake, having admired the gentle Wolds scenery, could understand the sentiment. He snapped back to attention at the mention of Lord Tennyson, one of his favourite poets.

The barrister was saying, “…and they demolished the manor in the nineteen sixties, a pity, but it was in a dangerous state of neglect and had to go. Lord Tennyson’s uncle Charles owned it. There are some memorials to the family in our church. It’s largely twelfth-century if you’re interested.” Jake was. Among his hobbies, he enjoyed visiting country churches. He made a mental note.

“Ah, we’re here. The lawyer turned into the drive of an immaculate garden belonging to a splendid detached house of indeterminate style. An eminent architect had designed it in the 1920s, more with blending into the surroundings than with modern creativity in mind. The result was a harmonious, airy, well-lit building that hinted at rural tradition whilst offering every convenience.

The large fireplace with oak lintel, delimited by a stone hearth, dominated the spacious lounge. Sitting in an armchair with a tartan rug over his legs, a white-haired wizened-faced figure looked up with rheumy eyes when his son entered with two newcomers.

“My father, Roy,” Sir John indicated the old man. “Father, this is Mr Conley, the gentleman from London I told you about. He’s come to attempt to get to the bottom of the Covenham mystery.”

Roy Robinson gazed at them, Jake suspected without understanding, when the elderly man wheezed a response, “How I wish he would.”

“My father is ninety-four,” the lawyer said, “But his mind is active. This affair has troubled him as long as I can remember. I don’t want to overtire him, so I’ll relate what happened to him since I’ve heard the tale many times and if I err, he will correct me, won’t you dad?”

The senior Robinson chuckled and raised a hand, heavy with blue veins and dark liver-coloured spots. Everyone took this to mean assent, so Sir John pulled three chairs close to the fire, threw another oak log on to add to the others. They settled down to listen.

Sir John began. “His story begins in December 1934 in a village called Covenham St. Mary, beyond Binbrook towards the coast, when he was seven. Father was playing with a tin car and pushing it across the carpet in the living room. He was a sensitive child, and though my grandparents were strict, he enjoyed plenty of affection. His mother, red in the face, came out of the kitchen with a basket full of washing from the wringer. Roy hated washing day because the kitchen was so full of steam from the copper boiler and his mum was so busy that she couldn’t give him any attention. It was worse in winter, of course, with damp, steaming washing on the clothes horse in front of the fire.

“My grandmother told him: Roy, don’t go into the kitchen. I don’t want you anywhere near that boiler, do you hear? I’m just going to peg the washing out, it’s a lovely drying day.”

My father had no intention of going into the kitchen; he imagined he was Frank Clement with a 4.5 litre Bentley winning the Le Mans race at more than 100 miles an hour…it was just at the moment of his triumph, as he crossed the winning line and took the chequered flag that he felt a strange chill penetrate to his bones…”

At this point in the account, the old man by the fire heaved a wheezing sigh that made Jake and Alice stare at him. They both noticed the strange expression and faraway look in his pale grey eyes. Neither of them doubted that he too was following the story with the same attention as they were. Sir John continued, “…It was a sunny day and up to that instant a draught through the open door cooled the room of the steam from the kitchen. But my father felt a different sensation, numbing and disturbing. He looked up and saw an old woman with a big book in her lap sitting in a rocking chair by the hearth. She had lank, white hair around a wrinkled face. Father felt no fear. It was right. The old woman somehow belonged there. She smiled at him as his teeth began to chatter and he wrapped his arms across his chest to warm up. The woman didn’t speak. Instead she raised her right hand and pointed to the stairs. Then she waved him in that direction with the back of her hand. Father stood up and hesitated, still staring into the gentle, reassuring face of the old woman. Smiling, she repeated the gesture and he walked to the stairs, dividing the living room from the kitchen of Rose Cottage. Like an automaton, with no free will, he began to climb the stairs. On the fourth stair he stopped rooted to the spot. He still felt numb and seemed unable to control his body. His head, as if moved by another, turned to face over his left shoulder, until his nose almost touched the wall of the stairs. He didn’t know why he was staring at the wall or for how long.”

“The old lady must have been a ghost,” Jake murmured and as if he could read his mind, the veteran, who was studying his face, nodded in confirmation.

Sir John also looked at Jake and reassured that his guest was following the tale, went on,

“He felt warm again and he turned around and jumped down to the floor. He checked and found his mother still in the garden pegging a linen sheet. Then he skipped back into the living room and found that there was no old woman and no rocking chair. As only a seven-year-old can, he put them both out of his mind at once and concentrated on receiving his cup for winning the Le Mans race.

When his mother came back in, he didn’t tell her about the old woman. But what had happened in those few minutes stayed with him for the rest of his life.

Arthur, my grandfather, and his wife Rebecca had moved to Rose Cottage in Covenham St. Mary in the summer of 1933 because they were poor. Arthur was self-employed as a painter and decorator and he kept his paint, brushes and stepladders in a handcart. This he attached to his bicycle, since most of his work was in nearby villages or thirteen miles away in the town of Cleethorpes, which they’d left because they couldn’t afford the rent on the houses there. One of his clients mentioned that there was a small cottage that had been empty for a hundred and thirty years in Covenham St. Mary, a village with a population of 270. All the cottage needed was some repairs and a coat of paint. It was available for next to nothing because nobody wanted to live there.

Granddad Arthur laughed off the idea that the cottage was haunted. In fact, he wasn’t even interested in hearing about what he called the whys and wherefores of the case. Enrolled in the Lincoln Regiment at 16, sent home as too young, joined up at 17 when there were less scruples, wounded twice in the Great War, won the Military Medal twice and made King’s Corporal, Arthur wasn’t going to be bothered about any ghost nonsense; he’d seen enough c*****e to last several lifetimes, but he’d never seen the ghost of a fallen comrade. Ghosts didn’t exist as far as he was concerned…”

Sir John excused himself to get a drink, “Need to wet the whistle, old chap. Will you join me… and you, Mrs Conley?” Alice declined, but Jake, on spotting the bottle of Aberfeldy single malt, surrendered to one of his weaknesses. The smooth liquor with a hint of smoke, drunk beside the fire, was the perfect accompaniment to a ghost story in Jake’s opinion.

Dabbing his lips with a handkerchief, Sir John, addressing Alice, continued after an apology for the interlude, “…Rose Cottage was suitable for Arthur’s small family, with its two rooms downstairs and the bathroom and bedroom upstairs. Now that a second child was on the way grandmother worried that there might be a problem. Already Roy’s bed was in the corner of their bedroom, but Arthur had made the cottage very attractive at very little cost. The baby was due in three months, in March, and they’d have to manage. Arthur and Becky were very much in love and that made the difference.

It was a crisp December afternoon and Arthur biked the last few yards to Rose Cottage at around twenty-past twelve. He had a job at Utterby about two and a half miles away and he’d come home for lunch. Arthur was grateful when he was close enough to home to have a cooked meal instead of the packed lunch Becky made him when he was further away. He leant his bicycle against the fence and strode through the gate and up the path to his door.

“I’m home, Bubs.” he called, using his pet name for her, because her curls made him think of bubbles. The stairs faced the door and in two bounds he was already mounting them, “I’ll just wash my hands.” He savoured the delicious aroma from the kitchen. About to turn into the bathroom at the top of the stairs, granddad stopped and the smile vanished. The bedroom door was open and what he saw made him rush downstairs red in the face to the roots of his ginger hair.

“Rebecca!” he barked in the tone of his old company sergeant—and he never called her that unless he was furious. She looked up from stirring the gravy with a sweet smile. She was used to his temper bursting as quick as a spring shower.

“What have you done upstairs, woman? Did you move all the furniture?”

“Yes,” she smiled.

Arthur’s face became plum red, “Are you crazy? In your state? You’re six months gone; you could lose the baby like that. Why didn’t you ask me if you wanted the furniture moving?”

Becky moved the gravy to a cold plate on the range and put her arms around her husband. She kissed his burning cheek. “Well, be honest, Arthur, if I’d asked you, you’d have said no, wouldn’t you? Besides, I don’t know why, but it was just something I had to do, like it was a feeling stronger than me.” She squeezed him tight and gave him another kiss. Becky could feel the tension leave him and he pressed his lips against hers.

“Well, don’t have any more of these feelings. Do you hear me? Do you know how much that wardrobe weighs?”

“Oh, come on grumpy, no harm’s done, get those hands washed and sit down at table. I’ve made shepherd’s pie. Roy will be home from school in a minute and he’ll need the bathroom.” At the thought of Roy, she sighed and hoped that her little boy hadn’t suffered any bullying today at the Elementary School. It drew from the villages of Fotherby, Utterby and Little Grimsby as well as from the twin village of Covenham St. Bartholomew. Children were often cruel and they teased Roy because of his sensitivity, he was different from them. It was a constant worry.

Arthur’s mind was troubled too, but for another reason. As he biked back to work that afternoon he pondered over his wife’s strange behaviour. What on earth had possessed her to move the heavy bedroom furniture around in her condition?”

At the same time Becky murmured, “How could I tell him the truth? He’d think me out of my mind.” She sat down in the armchair next to the hearth and reflected on the morning’s strange events. Roy was at school and Arthur was at work and she decided to have a break from housework with a cup of tea.” Sir John looked at his father as if for confirmation that his facts were correct. The old man waved him on. Hesitating for a moment as if he’d lost the thread, he said, “Ah, yes …she carried it into the living room and that was when she saw an old woman with a black book in her lap seated in a rocking chair by the hearth. Becky felt a chill run up and down her spine. The fine hairs on her arm stood on end and she was rooted to the spot unable to move, while the air around her felt cold.”

As for Jake, a familiar dull ache between his eyebrows told him that the tale had psychic importance to him. He rubbed his temples and the old man grinned a toothless smile. Struggling to latch on to the story again, he heard Sir John say, “…Grandma knew at once that this was the old woman who was said to haunt the house, but like Arthur she’d dismissed talk of ghosts as nonsense. Yet she wasn’t afraid. There was something kind about the old woman’s wrinkly face and its gentle smile. But there was something else in her expression, Becky thought, what was it, concern?”

“As she thought this, the old woman pointed towards the ceiling. Becky’s eyes followed the finger upwards. It was in that instant that her head filled with the urgent need to move the bedroom furniture around. When she looked back the old woman had disappeared and in the place of the rocking chair was Becky’s familiar armchair. With notable courage, Becky sat down there with her cup of tea. She hadn’t imagined the old woman, she knew that —and another thing, the room was warm again. Becky sipped her tea. “So, I’ve seen the ghost,” she thought. She knew that there were people in Covenham who’d believe her, more than once she’d heard the tragic tale of the old woman’s death recounted in awed tones by one or other of the villagers; she knew equally well that Arthur would tease her if she uttered even one word about a ghost. When she finished her tea, Becky went into the bedroom. After an hour’s exertion, the layout of the bedroom was different, she’d even managed to shift the heavy wardrobe. She couldn’t explain why, but she knew this task was urgent. Why it was so pressing, she had no idea.”

Alice stared at Jake, who was tense and pale. She knew him well enough by now to see that this tale was having a profound effect on him. Could it be that AA had hit upon something that his old public-school mate had told him and thought it worthy of Jake’s attentions? She wondered where all this was leading.

“Father came back from school at half-past four,” Sir John continued, “At a quarter-past five Arthur was back home and sniffing the air at the door. “I reckon there’s a storm brewing, Bubs, the air’s far too still.”

“Put the wood in the hole, Arthur,” she said, using one of his own favourite expressions for shutting the door, “you’re letting all the heat out of the room.”

The evening passed much as usual. Roy was asleep by eight o’clock and Becky and Arthur went up to bed around half-past ten. What a gale was blowing! The rain lashed against the sash windows. These were draughty old windows Becky thought as she snuggled down even further under the eiderdown. She worried that Roy wouldn’t be warm enough and then thought that if she put any more bedding on him, she’d crush him. Anyway, he had an earthenware hot water bottle in with him. She relaxed, cuddled up to her husband and drifted into an uneasy sleep. Meanwhile, the storm got worse. About one o’clock Becky woke with a start. The wind was howling like a tortured beast in a steel-fanged trap. She gasped as the gale flung something against the rattling window, maybe the branch of a tree.

Thank goodness it didn’t break the glass.

Lightning flashed overhead and lit up the curtains that rose and fell in the draught, like arms raised in anguish. Tense, Grandma lay listening to the small skeleton of the cottage groan and creak under its skin of plaster, while the sounds of water sluicing from the drainpipes and the rain driven against the panes were drowned by the roar of thunder that woke even the deep-sleeping Arthur. Just then the old mortar on the chimney gave way. Like bombardment on the Western Front, there was a deafening crash as the whole stack broke loose and crashed through the tiled roof and through the bedroom ceiling in a cloud of dust and debris. Even in her terrified state Becky realised:

It’s come down where our bed would have been if I hadn’t moved it.

Roy woke with his heart pounding fit to burst and his face white with dust. Tears washed two flesh-coloured lines down the dust mask as he howled for his mother, but Becky screamed as her contractions began and that morning Roy had a little brother, Kenneth, born three months before his time.”

Sir John stood, crossed over to the dresser and poured himself another whisky. Without a word, he waved the bottle at Jake.

“Don’t mind if I do. Thank you.” When the barrister settled back into his armchair, Jake told him, “You know, that’s a fascinating story and whilst I believe that your father,” he glanced at the old man, whose head had dropped onto his chest and whose breathing was deep and regular, “saw a ghost, it could be argued that his mother had a premonition. But given the circumstances, I feel sure the ghost saved the family that night.”

“By Jove, father has told that story to many people, believe me, but I must say, you are the first that’s sounded so convinced.” He gave Jake a warm smile and added, “Clive told me you were the chappie to get to the bottom of our mystery and I believe he’s right.”

“I’ve had more than a little experience of the supernatural, Sir John, and I feel sure that the ghost was trying to tell your father by gestures that —”

“Yes! Oh sorry to interrupt. My enthusiasm, I’m afraid it gets the better of me. You were going to say that there was something in the stair wall, I think.”

“I was. Is that what your father believes?”

“It is.”

“Has neither of you been back to find out? I presume the cottage is still standing?”

“Yes, but abandoned for years. The villagers won’t go near it. Many still think it’s haunted even in this day and age. I imagine it would cost a pretty penny to restore the place and with it being small, pokey by today’s standards, who would take it on? Father never did go back, but he’s often wondered whether there was something in the wall. Now he’s very old, I believe it’s become an obsession to unveil the mystery. And, frankly, I’m far too busy.”

“It’s fascinating. I think you’d better tell me how to find Rose Cottage and anything you think might help an investigation, Sir John.”

“Well…”

By the time he’d finished and arranged for them to sleep in his guest room, plus granting them the loan of his Land Rover, both Jake and Alice were happy to retire to discuss what they had heard. The plan was to go to Covenham St. Mary the next morning.