They walked for over an hour, Selena taking dozens of photos of the landscape, stark outcrops of jagged rock, wild expanses of gorse, layered fields and trees in shades of green stretching towards a sky crammed full of pleated clouds. Then they arrived at a path that dissected purple heather and a criss-cross of fields, dropping down to the deep blue sea and fading eventually into pale hazy sky. Not far away, ponies grazed freely, their heads down nibbling long grass. Selena said, ‘Oh, this is incredible. I want to paint it all.’
Nick looked pleased as she snapped away, taking more photos. ‘We could spend days here and not see everything. I’d love to go on to Valley of the Rocks, but we won’t have time today. There are some great costal paths to walk, streams – the ancient “clapper bridge” is fantastic, and you can’t come to Exmoor and not visit Porlock Weir.’
Selena whirled round. ‘I want to see everything,’ she gushed. ‘Can’t we visit all of them? There’s so much I want to paint. It’s paradise.’
‘You might have to stay on for another month,’ Nick suggested. ‘I’m sure the colours will be even more striking in the autumn and in the winter – imagine the sight of a stag standing on the top of a rock.’
Selena smiled. ‘Maybe I should stay for a whole year.’
Their eyes met, and they were both quiet for a moment, thinking. Selena imagined being with Nick in a cosy thatched cottage overlooking the sea, morning mist rising outside the windows, the sun warming the pale sand. Then Nick said, ‘We can walk the half a mile back to the car, then drive to the clapper bridge. You could take some photos there. It will be a complete contrast to Exmoor, all overhanging trees, and then we could take the road back via Tiverton in time for afternoon tea at Hilltop.’
‘It sounds perfect.’
They walked side by side, Nick talking to her; she could hear the gentle cadence of his voice, but she was lost deep in her own thoughts. She realised that Nick had asked her a question, and she shook her head, apologetically.
‘I’m so sorry… what was that?’
‘You were miles away,’ Nick said.
‘Yes, sorry, I do that sometimes,’ Selena explained. ‘My head becomes full of things I’m going to paint and I start composing pictures and I get lost in my own world.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not great company, am I? Typical obsessive artist.’
‘You’re wonderful company,’ Nick insisted. ‘I wouldn’t be out walking on the moors if you weren’t here. And it’s fascinating, getting to understand the mind of an obsessive artist.’ He smiled. ‘I could get used to it.’
Selena felt the blood rush to her face; she covered her embarrassment with a laugh. ‘But you’re creative too. Doesn’t it happen to you?’
‘I get lost in a book, yes, all the time,’ he said. ‘I can open something to read in the evening, start at chapter one, and before I know it, time has flown by, I’m halfway through and it’s past midnight. It’s so easy to get lost in another world.’
‘It is.’
They had reached the car. Selena stretched her legs towards the footwell and settled into the warmth.
As Nick drove along winding roads, she became enveloped in thoughts again; her mind was sucked back to Sloe Cottage, the gloomy living room with its warm hearth, the bright conservatory where paintings seemed to flow from her brushes thick and fast, the homely kitchen. She wondered what time Claire would arrive tomorrow, and her thoughts shifted to the spare bedroom where Claire would stay. Selena planned to open the windows straight after breakfast, put a scented candle in there, so that the room would be welcoming and fresh.
They arrived at Tarr Bridge, walking from the car park towards the river. Selena stopped and caught her breath. Huge slabs of uneven grey stones stretched across the stream, shards of sunlight sending silver ripples wriggling on the surface. Trees hung thickly over the stone bridge and, as they crossed slowly, step by step, Selena thought about clutching Nick’s arm. She stopped herself: she would not grasp anyone for support again. She was balanced now and sure-footed: she had survived David’s betrayal and the loss of her baby. She was stronger than ever.
She tugged her phone from a pocket and began to take photographs. Sunlight filtered through the trees, making starburst rays flood through dappled leaves and branches. They reached an expanse of space and turned to look back at the steps.
‘Why is it called a clapper bridge?’ Selena asked.
‘I think clapper is from the Latin claperius, meaning pile of stones.’ Nick made a mischievous face. ‘Or maybe I’m just making it up.’
‘It sounds feasible.’
‘I read somewhere that there’s an old belief that the Devil built the bridge. But it’s far too beautiful to come from something evil.’
‘I’m not sure. My paintings are often about just that… the beauty in nature that has the power to change, to become wild, tempestuous, dangerous even.’ Selena shook her head.
‘So, who is your favourite painter?’ Nick asked. ‘Let me guess… Van Gogh? Cézanne?’
‘I love O’Keeffe and Turner, Berthe Morisot, but my favourite of all is John Martin. Do you know his work?’
‘Did he paint one of Macbeth? I recall there being tiny figures and overwhelming sky, as if the heavens are enveloping Macbeth and Banquo on the moors…’
‘That’s it exactly.’ Selena took a breath. ‘John Martin makes nature so potent and awe-inspiring, as if it could crush humanity by its sheer power – which it can.’
Nick was gazing at her, his eyes shining. ‘I think that’s perfect.’
‘So…’ Selena took her turn. ‘Who’s your favourite poet?’
‘I have so many.’ Nick smiled. ‘But Yeats comes to mind right now, looking at the stream.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Yeats says that the impact of water stays with you, similar to what you were saying about the effect of nature in your paintings,’ Nick murmured;
‘I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.’
‘I like Yeats too, now I’ve heard that,’ Selena said.
‘I hope you like sponge cake as well,’ Nick grinned. ‘My mother will have made heaps of food and we ought to be getting back for tea…’
When they arrived at Hilltop Farm, Selena was struck by the extensive view beyond the flower-crammed garden across the fields down to Sloe Cottage and into the distance. She took more pictures on her phone and pointed at the panorama. ‘That must be the Blackdown Hills over there. Is that the beacon we walked to? Oh, and look – there’s the monument.’ She turned back to Nick, her eyes shining. ‘I want to paint this – look at all the fields and hills, the bright yellow of the rapeseed standing out against all the ochres and greys.’
Nick said, ‘I love the way everything captivates you as an artist. The enthusiasm is totally infectious.’
They turned to go inside, and Selena pointed to deep marks scored in the wood over the door, the letters A and M etched above a circular pattern. ‘What are those?’
‘Witch’s marks,’ Nick explained. ‘The daisy wheel shape is a hexafoil.’
Selena frowned. ‘Did a witch live in this farmhouse?’
‘No, it would have been the superstitious people who lived here in the seventeenth century. I think they made the marks to ward off bad luck.’
‘Why A and M?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Nick said. ‘Maybe that was the initials of the residents, or perhaps the person they suspected of being a witch?’
‘No, it’s something completely different.’ A tall man with pale hair and a green waxed coat stood at the doorway; Selena noticed that he looked like an older version of Nick: the twinkle of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. The man smiled. ‘Nick is right, it is the witch’s mark, but the AM stands for Ave Maria. The people who lived here were asking the Virgin Mary for protection.’ He held out his hand. ‘Ian Russell. Glad to meet you at last, Selena.’
Selena shook his hand: she liked him immediately.
Inside the square kitchen, Lesley was pouring tea into china cups. She was wearing a pretty flowery dress and the table was set out with glass cake stands, cakes on plates with doilies, scones, jam, cream, sandwiches.
Selena couldn’t help herself: ‘I should have dressed up.’
Lesley was delighted to see her. ‘Oh, no, you two have been walking all morning and I dare say you haven’t had any lunch.’ She glanced at her son. ‘Sit down, tuck in.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Nick offered a sheepish grin as Lesley loaded sandwiches onto a serving dish.
‘So where have you been to today?’ Lesley addressed Selena directly. ‘Or should I say where has he dragged you to?’
‘Oh, I’ve loved it – Exmoor, Tarr Bridge. I’m going to do so much painting next week,’ Selena replied enthusiastically and Lesley seemed thrilled.
Nick reached for a sandwich. ‘This is a great spread, Mum.’
‘Oh, I like to make a proper tea on a Sunday nowadays. The men in this family are all sinew and bones and I need to fatten you all up. Look at my Ian – there’s not a pick on him.’ Lesley winked at Selena. ‘I garden all week and I never lose a pound.’
‘You don’t need to.’ Ian patted his wife’s arm affectionately. ‘Selena was just asking about the witch’s marks over the door.’
‘I haven’t seen any marks like that above the door at Sloe Cottage,’ Selena replied cheerfully.
Ian’s expression was mischievous. ‘How are you finding it at Sloe Cottage? Has the ghost been behaving itself?’
‘Ian!’ Lesley admonished him. ‘You’ll frighten the poor girl.’
‘Not at all,’ Selena protested. ‘I love it there.’
‘What Ian means…’ Lesley said, ‘is that the house is very old; it comes with an atmosphere.’
‘We’ve had people stay there who have claimed to have heard all sorts of bumps and creaks.’ Ian seemed to find it mildly amusing. ‘One couple flat refused to pay the rent; they said the place had terrified them.’
Nick glanced at Selena, his face filled with concern. ‘I think you’re fine, aren’t you? It’s an old place, but it doesn’t seem to bother you much.’
‘I try not to think about it.’ Selena sipped her tea. ‘It is a bit creepy at times, and I have an artist’s imagination, which isn’t always a good thing, but I think if I knew more about the history of it, maybe then I wouldn’t feel so jumpy when I was alone. I just tell myself that all the creaks and bumps are a natural part of the house’s past.’
Lesley nodded agreement. ‘This farmhouse and the cottage belonged to my great-grandfather, and my father sold off most of the land to Jack and Owen Jeffries, who are local farmers. I think there’s a box of really old paperwork in the attic, which I keep meaning to look through. I’ve lived at Hilltop Farm since I was a child and Sloe Cottage has been a rental for much of the time, but it used to be a farmworker’s cottage and was updated over the years. We put the conservatory in and extended the kitchen and the main bedroom. An old couple lived in the cottage for five years when I was in my teens; they were a bit odd and never really complained about ghosts and such nonsense. But Ian’s right, we’ve had a few people who’ve stayed for a holiday and found it less relaxing than they’d hoped… I suppose I ought to sell it at some point in the future.’
‘I’d like to know more about the house. Who would know about past residents?’ Selena asked.
‘There would be parish records,’ Nick suggested.
‘You’d definitely find a lot of information in records. For example,’ Lesley held her fork in the air, ‘this area is called Chitterwell now. And that comes from the history of Sloe Cottage. Did you know that, Nick? It means chattering well. There’s a well in the garden.’
‘There is.’ Selena shivered: she had painted it, and the shadowy apparition standing just beyond, in the moonlight.
‘There’s a local family, the Shears, who seem to know a lot about Ashcombe – they’ve lived here for generations.’ Ian seemed pleased with his idea. ‘I’ll ask Jonathan Shears to drop by at some point, shall I? Then you can ask him all about the place for yourself.’
‘That would be great…’ Selena said. ‘I think there was a girl in Ashcombe Primary called Phoebe Shears who said something about the cottage being haunted. It seems to have quite a reputation locally.’ She sipped tea thoughtfully. Claire was arriving tomorrow, but once she’d gone back to Manchester, Selena would ask Nick if he’d help her to do some research.
Again, he seemed to read her thoughts. ‘It would be good to discover more about Sloe Cottage. It’s hundreds of years old, so there must be some fascinating facts.’
‘Oh, definitely.’ Selena met his gaze. ‘Perhaps it would explain the odd atmosphere, because the place holds so many memories. It would make me feel a little less edgy.’
‘Right – shall we start next week?’ Nick was enthusiastic. ‘What do you think, Mum? It’s your cottage.’
‘You know I’ve never believed in ghosts and hauntings. It’s an old cottage and it’s bound to creak a bit,’ Lesley said. ‘I’ve been in there so often and, yes, it’s a bit cold and a few doors slam, but that’s due to the age of the place and the draughts.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Selena felt relieved.
‘Then we’ll fix a date and make a start.’ Nick grinned.
‘Wonderful.’ Lesley looked from her son to Selena and her expression was one of clear joy as she held out the glass cake stand and purred, ‘Anyone for angel cake?’