Ghosts

Pam Clatworthy

‘That’s it then.’ Tom the general handyman locked the door of the empty tearoom and handed the key to Kezzie. He looked around the Tudor knot garden, there was not a soul in sight.

‘Seems strange to see no one here.’

Kezzie picked up the last remnant of litter, a salt and vinegar crisp packet, and fumbled in her overall pocket.

‘I nearly forgot this, Tom, your share of the tips. Mrs. Proctor sorted it out last night. The visitors have been really generous this year and we’ve had so many of them, all due to the Haunted Houses and Gardens series on TV, I suppose. Surprising what a bit of ghostly publicity can do. The “most haunted country cottage in Wales” certainly brought them in. We should do even better next year.’

Tom looked at her.

‘I don’t really believe in ghosts, but lots of the visitors said they’d seen something. Are you sure you’re going to be all right here alone until we open again next Easter?’

Kezzie laughed. ‘We’ve only funny, quirky spirits haunting us here, they never speak or shriek or groan and they do nothing harmful. I’ll be fine, Tom, thanks. Now off you go and have a bit of fun before going back to college. You deserve it. See you next year, I hope, and thanks for all your help this summer, you’ve been so good with even the most difficult of old dears.’

The late autumn sun was blazing red behind low western clouds when Kezzie finally threw her boots in the corner of the kitchen and filled up the kettle to make tea. The water pipes grumbled as usual and loud cracking noises in ancient woodwork filled the room as the pipes expanded. Out of the corner of her eye Kezzie fancied she spotted a pale wraith making for the door.

‘Come back Mabel, please don’t get so upset,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m only making myself a cup of tea. I’ve told you over and over again, Mr. Bartlett has gone forever. He’s been dead for nearly two hundred years now. I know he was a bad master and because you murdered his prize bloodhound by feeding it rat poison, he threw you down the well. I can understand your fear of water it must have been awful for you, but please let bygones be bygones so that I can have my tea in peace.’

Kezzie’s plea seemed to do the trick. Mabel hovered around a few minutes more before disappearing into the wall. The sudden loud scratching at the ancient door that led from the kitchen into courtyard was no surprise to Kezzie and always made her smile. For whenever Mabel disappeared, Rufus the red hound was always anxious to manifest himself.

‘Come in, Rufus. She’s gone so you need have no fear of being poisoned tonight.’

A large bloodhound moved towards Kezzie. The dog’s transparent body stood in front of the old green Aga, his white ribs superimposed over an oven door. Kezzie thought she could feel the draught from the animal’s whisking tail, he was so real to her. She put out her hand and tentatively stroked where she imagined the dog’s high domed head would be.

‘You are a superior ghost,’ she crooned to the nearly non-existent beast. ‘A perfect pet. No barking, no drooling and no need for exercise. I’ll miss you when I go skiing over Christmas, but I promise to come back as soon as I can.’

The dog sat obediently at Kezzie’s command, then stretched out in front of the fireplace where he fell fast asleep, his body absorbing the dusty colours of the old rag rug. There were only three more ghostly inhabitants to go after the dog appeared. Kezzie knew that two of them would manifest themselves as soon as she turned the television set on and right on cue they appeared, standing behind her as she stretched out on the overstuffed chintz-covered sofa.

‘Good evening gentlemen. I’m watching The Adventures of Robin Hood tonight,’ she said, knowing how much they enjoyed that particular adventure story. ‘Please sit down and join me in the viewing.’

She was always careful to speak in the most courteous manner to the old gentlemen who were used to the formality of mediaeval court life.

There was a flurry of excitement as the two burly Knights Templar pushed their way to sit down next to her, they did enjoy watching television. She moved over a little to give them room.

Kezzie had no fear of any of the strange spirits that thronged the house. Harmless creatures all. Even the two Crusaders had been peacefully sleeping in what was the old hunting lodge when a midwinter gale had brought the heavy, oak-beamed roof down on top of them. They had been on their way to the Second Crusade when tragedy struck and had been previously been shriven by the local priest before they left home, so they had both died a holy and sinless death. Now, the two sat peacefully and silently together holding hands, enjoying the cut and thrust of life in Sherwood Forest. Kezzie thought it shame they couldn’t enjoy the chocolate that she would have been quite willing to share. Being well trained in good manners and chivalry they departed as soon as the final credits appeared on the screen, walking up a non-existent flight of stairs which had been removed during alterations in Victorian times.

At eleven o’clock, she made herself a bedtime drink. The old water pipes thrummed and as Mabel scooted around the kitchen in a frenzy of demented activity, Rufus made his departure through the locked door, not wishing to be re-poisoned by the simple creature, even though his death had been due to a mistaken use of the arsenic bottle in place of the worming cure, caused by misreading.

Kezzie’s bedroom was under the eaves, it was warm and airless tonight. She flung open the casement window and as she leaned out to see if she could catch a glimpse of the sickle moon, she breathed in the sweet scent of the Albertine roses that flopped against the gnarled, split oak, window frame. They were truly the last roses of summer – a sudden frost would kill them soon, beautiful ephemeral flowers with such a short lifespan. Unless, she thought, they too would reappear as ghostly ephemera once the old house was left to sleep and all humans had departed for the winter. It was a strange thought and Kezzie shivered for a second. Perhaps taking all the ghosts for granted was making her a strange creature. Indeed, the thought that she might be a ghost herself came into her mind but she shrugged it off. Would a ghost be capable of managing a haunted house, dealing with staff wages and tax returns? Not in a million years. Suddenly, a firm hand around her waist told her that the last and most joyous ghost of the evening had appeared in her room. A tall man stood beside her. He said nothing but he smiled and kissed her neck. She did not know who he was, where he came from or if he really was a ghost. She really didn’t care. There was no explanation for his appearance; he had turned up one night in early Spring and had come again every night since. They never spoke, she never asked him questions. They just enjoyed each other. She turned to greet her lover and smiled at him, holding him close. His young, naked body felt warm to her touch and she knew that this was going to be the most perfect night in the most haunted cottage in Britain.