I was determined not to let the December grizzle get to me. Trees bare and black, grass scutchy and withered. Not worth looking out on. Roll on Christmas and New Year and the first snowdrop. And making a start on the Deer’s Leap books, as Jeannie and I had come to know them, even though the first of the quartet was still nothing more than a synopsis. At the moment, the embryo book was known as ‘First of the Deer’s Leaps’ – no title, yet, though one would be there in the text; a phrase that would jump out and hit me before the book was finished. A phrase with witch in it, maybe?
Deer’s Leap, and the summer I found it, was never far from my mind. And I had found more than I bargained for – a house I ached to own and the ghost of a long-ago pilot looking for his girl. And me falling in love with him, would you believe, or ready to fall for someone very much like him, if men like Jack Hunter still existed.
A train on the up line crashed past, startling me, and I shifted my elbow from the window ledge.
‘Come to London,’ Jeannie had said. ‘Have a Christmas lunch with me and bring the synopsis of the First of the Deer’s Leaps with you.’
There is no messing with Jeannie, but she knows her stuff; likes her own way too when it comes to books, because she knows what she’s talking about. Doesn’t believe in ghosts either, even though reluctantly prepared to admit there was ‘something peculiar’ at Deer’s Leap, though I wasn’t to let it get in the way of my writing!
So I had done as she said; kept my head down and delivered my second novel on time. Only then had I let Jack Hunter back into my mind; Suzie, too. Because there would be no rest for that pilot until he found her, old though she would now be.
The bonus was that she was still alive. She had to be. I had established that beyond reasonable doubt as I read Dragonfly Morning. Susanna Lancaster was Susan Smith – Jack Hunter’s Suzie. That novel was thought to be her swan song, Jeannie had once said; setting the records straight before she retired from writing. And it was sad that her lover was only a name now on a war memorial. Small comfort, that, to a young woman bringing up a child alone. There must have been a few like her during that war, I supposed, as the train began to slow on the outskirts of Peterborough.
But at least her baby had been born into love, if not into peace, in the higgledy-piggledy cottage in Cheshire. Suzie – Rosie – had remained with Aunt Lottie; never seen her parents again. Nor Deer’s Leap. Nor had she ever got in touch with Bessie. It was all there in the last four chapters of Dragonfly Morning; how a little love child was born three days into January 1945, and how that baby’s mother, encouraged by Charlotte Martin, had become Susanna Lancaster – and famous and rich.
When the compartment settled down again after the Peterborough stop, I closed my eyes, trying hard to think about the Deer’s Leap stories, and how lucky I was to have had four books commissioned – provided the first was anything like decent. And to keep my mind on them, I concentrated hard on the advance I would soon get. Advance on publication, it’s called; a decent payment up front to subsidize the author during the writing, so she needn’t starve in a garret.
So I had no money worries, though I wasn’t in Susanna Lancaster’s league. And now I was back to Ms Lancaster again, and Deer’s Leap and Jack Hunter, and it simply wouldn’t do!
Trouble was, I would have to return to the beautiful Trough of Bowland time and time again. Research would demand it. And to Pendle witch country too, to steep myself in folklore, because the first of the quartet would be about the building of a house in 1592, and a secret witch called Mary Dobbie, who had lit the first fire on the stone hearth and longed for a son to inherit that house. Margaret Dacre’s fictional counterpart …
We were slowing again, and I looked out at the closepacked houses, trying not to compare them with Deer’s Leap and a view that stretched into forever.
People began to put on jackets, pick up briefcases and walk slowly towards the front of the train so they could be first off; first through the barrier, first in the taxi rank queue.
I didn’t get to my feet until all the pushing and shoving was finished, then picked up the plastic bag with a whole parkin in it, and a jar of heather honey for Jeannie, going with the flow following the signs to the underground. I wasn’t rich enough yet to splash out on taxis.
‘So you read Dragonfly Morning?’ Jeannie asked on the way to the restaurant round the corner from Harrier Books.
‘I did. Do you think it’s Susanna Lancaster saying goodbye to her past?’
‘Dunno. Fiction, faction or biography – who cares as long as it sells books?’
‘You’re a cynic.’
‘So? It’s a cynical world we live in!’
I rather liked the restaurant. It had tablecloths of brown paper, and bright coral napkins. I made a mental note to remember to tell Mum about brown-paper tablecloths for her next WI bash!
‘Am I to be allowed to talk about Deer’s Leap?’ I asked as we settled ourselves at a window table. ‘Not World War Two Deer’s Leap, though it’s never going to be far away. But all four books are going to be motivated by Deer’s Leap – haunted by it, in fact!’
‘Agreed. But you’re not to go poking about, raising ghosts. Only legitimate research allowed.’
‘So you are willing to admit that Dragonfly Morning was written by Susan Smith and that Bessie Drake is really Mrs Taylor, nee Lizzie Frobisher? And that the aerodrome at RAF Laceby Green was really at Acton Carey?’
‘All right! And that Laburnum Farm was Deer’s Leap! It all fits in! But do you reckon Mildred Kenton could have been such a bitch, Cassie?’
‘A bitch and a witch,’ I said firmly, ‘and possessed by the ghost of Margaret Dacre. And I think the immediate vicinity of that house is ghost territory; we-e-ll, if you are like me and Aunt Jane, that is. Some people attract ghosts; some don’t. And before I forget, Jeannie …’
I dipped into my handbag and brought out a letter I had written to Susanna Lancaster, c/o Harrier Books, with ‘Kindly Forward’ written in the top left-hand corner, and a first-class stamp in the other. I asked Jeannie to pass the letter to Susanna Lancaster’s editor.
‘You’re still determined, then, to get in touch?’
‘I am. Somehow she’s got to know that Jack Hunter is still looking for her. And you needn’t worry. I haven’t gone in feet first. There’s only sufficient in that letter to make her curious, and maybe write back.’
‘She doesn’t have to reply, you know.’
‘But she will, Jeannie. She must!’
‘That one summer at Deer’s Leap was a long time ago; she might want to put it all behind her.’
‘She can’t, or why did she write Dragonfly Morning, will you tell me?’
The waiter was standing there, eyebrow raised, and Jeannie asked him to give us a minute, then shoved the menu at me.
‘Chicken Kiev,’ I said without hesitation, ‘and water to drink, please.’ I had twenty miles to drive when I got off the train.
‘She wrote Dragonfly Morning,’ Jeannie said, ‘because it was a good story. World War Two novels still sell. The young ones are interested in what their grandparents got up to; to the older generation they are pure nostalgia.’
‘And you’re saying she wrote Jack and Suzie’s story just for money? She couldn’t have! That book was written from the heart!’
‘Maybe. But she could have used memories, Cassie. A lot of authors do. And haven’t you just once thought she might have met someone else – married him?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said stubbornly. ‘She would never have taken second best.’
The waiter arrived with water and a glass of red wine for Jeannie, who put the letter in her handbag.
‘You’ll see she gets it?’ I said, fixing her with a don’t-dare-forget stare.
‘I’ll give it to her editor, and it will be sent on. After that, it’ll be up to Susanna Lancaster, so don’t hold your breath!’
‘And talking of Lancaster – the place, I mean,’ I said, determined to have the last word on the subject, ‘I always thought Susanna took the pseudonym Lancaster because that was where she lived, but when she started getting noticed as a writer she was still at Primrose Cottage, with Aunt Lottie and Kate.’
‘Yes. It says in the last chapter of Dragonfly Morning that when Charlotte Martin died, she left Primrose Cottage to Rosamund for her lifetime, and then to Rosamund’s daughter, Kate. Some time after, Susanna must have gone home to live.’
‘As near to Deer’s Leap as she dare, you mean?’
‘Back to Lancashire. And I know what you are getting at. She could never have forgotten Jack because she took Lancaster – the name of the bomber he flew – as her pseudonym.’
‘Yes. And she doesn’t live in the house near Lancaster-the-place now.’
‘How do you know?’ Jeannie’s head came up with a jerk.
‘Because I knew, from what you had said, approximately where she lived, so I went looking for her.’
‘Cassie! You can’t do things like that! A writer is entitled to her privacy – surely you of all people realize that?’
‘Well, I don’t – didn’t. I’m not in Susanna Lancaster’s league, am I? Nobody has yet beaten a path to the door of Greenleas.’
‘Well, it’ll serve you right when it happens to you!’
‘Jeannie, don’t go on, so! I found the Regency house with seven steps, but someone else was living there. Susanna had gone, having first warned the new owner there might be fans knocking on the door from time to time. It was a wasted day, except that I took photographs for research, and got you some honey!’
‘Then perhaps you’ll listen to me next time. I do know what I’m talking about, Cassie!’
My reply about me and Aunt Jane not being able to help attracting ghosts was not made, because our food arrived. So instead, I pierced the meat and watched the garlicky sauce spread across the plate. Then I forked chips onto my plate with an easy conscience, because since finishing Firedance I’ve been giving Dad a hand in the market garden, and there is nothing like a spot of good, honest digging to shift the odd pound of flab!
‘You won’t forget the letter?’ was the last thing I said to Jeannie, and she said she wouldn’t, and that she hoped I had a good Christmas.
I felt a bit flat on the train going home. I adore London, but when I get to King’s Cross and see the York train, I want nothing more than to get on it.
It was impossible to see anything through the dark windows, except the compartment lights reflected back, so I closed my eyes and let the rhythm of the train into my head, putting words to the low, repetitive noise.
Rosie Kenton – Suzie Smith … Mrs Taylor – Bessie Drake … Acton Carey – Laceby Green … Mildred Kenton – witch, witch, witch …
‘Excuse me?’ There was a voice, above my head. ‘You’ve been asleep. Are you getting off at York?’
I blinked open my eyes. The train was almost at a standstill.
‘Good heavens! Thanks a lot!’
Still feeling a bit gormless, I waved from the platform to the vigilant lady who smiled from the window as the train set off again. I hoped I hadn’t snored.
York station, decorated for Christmas, made me feel pleased to be almost home. I took torch and keys from my bag and made for the car park and the red Mini. Twenty more miles to Greenleas. I hoped the kitchen would be full of cooking smells, and that Mum would have the kettle on.
Christmas was over. Dad was pleased because sales of holly wreaths and decorations and late-flowering chrysanthemums had been good. I was pleased because, with all the fuss over, I could get down to the First of the Deer’s Leap books and daydream about an old, empty house and a For Sale board outside it.
Mum was not pleased, and started the first working day after the holiday by snapping at Dad over nothing. It began with the needles from the Christmas tree, and the mess they always made, and that for two pins she would have an artificial one next year!
Dad had said that artificial, as in growing things, was an unacceptable word at Greenleas, and any such Christmas tree would be thrown out!
Whereupon Mum burst into tears and flung the Yorkshire Post at me.
‘Look! In the Engagements column! All done sly and his mother never saying a word about it last night at the WI!’
Yardley – Deighton-James. The engagement is announced between Piers Yardley of Kensington, London, and Maria Deighton-James, of Cromer, Norfolk.
I sucked in my breath, remembering King’s Cross station, and the look of love.
‘So he did it!’ was all I could think of to say.
‘Very brief and to the point, isn’t it?’ Dad jabbed his pipe at the offending two-and-a-bit lines.
‘And why, will you tell me, isn’t Rowbeck good enough for him?’ Mum was still indignant.
‘Piers always did like a good address,’ I said softly, then burst out laughing.
‘And what’s so funny, Cassandra?’ I always get my full name when Mum isn’t best pleased with me. ‘They’ll all be at it in the village. Everybody thought that you and Piers would make a go of it!’
‘Then everybody is wrong, Mum. And if anyone remarks on it, you can tell them that Cassie is very pleased for them both.’
‘And are you?’
‘I am. Truly. Even though everyone thought that he and I were an item. Like I told you – three books …’ I tapped my nose with my finger, then winked at her. ‘You’ll get your grandchildren, I promise. And, Mum, Piers was never the right man for me, so get on the phone and ring Mrs Yardley, like you should have done, or she’ll think you are jealous!’
‘If you’re sure, Cassie …’
‘Of course!’ I was never more sure of anything, though for the life of me I couldn’t tell Mum why. It was what happened, I suppose, when you had to admit that given half a chance, you could fall in love with a ghost you hadn’t even kissed! And who was in love with someone else! I had more interesting things on my mind than Piers’s engagement.
I had told myself I wouldn’t worry overmuch if it took Susanna Lancaster a couple of weeks to reply to my letter.
… I have enjoyed reading Dragonfly Morning so much, especially as last summer I spent a month at a house called Deer’s Leap. I think I slept in Rosie’s room, too, above the kitchen; the red roses still peep in at the window.
Is Deer’s Leap the Laburnum Farm of your novel and could Bessie Drake once have been called Lizzie Frobisher?
I enclose a stamped envelope in case you can find time to reply to me. I do hope you will …
Allowing for the postal rush over Christmas, and given she wouldn’t write back immediately, even though she couldn’t help being curious, I was sure there would be something in the post by the end of January.
February came, and two chapters of the First of the Deer’s Leaps written and rewritten. It looked as if she wasn’t going to write, I thought, going through the morning post on 14 February. No letter from Susanna Lancaster, and this was the first time since I was twelve that no one had sent me a Valentine card! Cassie Johns was turning into a workaholic spinster! I put on my wellies and jacket, wound a scarf round my neck, and made for the churchyard.
‘Piers is getting married at Easter,’ I said. Not out loud, of course; Mum had already made it plain she didn’t want anyone to see me carrying on a conversation with a headstone. I talk to Aunt Jane with my mind and my heart, though Rowbeck would think that a little bit kinky, too!
‘So? You never loved him, Cassie.’
‘This was the first year I didn’t get a Valentine card either. Not even one!’
‘Does it matter?’
‘We-e-ll, no. Not really. I feel a bit cast adrift, though …’
‘On the shelf, you mean? I wouldn’t worry overmuch about that, girl. Get on with the next book!’
‘I am. It’s taking shape nicely. Firedance should be out in October. D’you reckon it’ll do well?’
I listened, but there was no reply. She had gone, and without so much as a chuckle. Not a bit interested in my second novel.
‘Bye,’ I whispered. ‘Just thought I’d pop by – say hullo.’
Hullo my left foot! I wanted the right words, like Aunt Jane usually gave out; words of comfort, or hope – like he was out there, and it wouldn’t be long before I met him. But she had left me hanging, turning off impatiently as if wanting to be rid of me!
She was right, of course. I ought to be working now, not time-wasting, telling Aunt Jane something she probably knew already!
The phone rang as I opened the back door and I called, ‘OK! I’ll get it!’ then ran upstairs to my desk.
‘Good morning. Am I speaking to Cassandra Johns?’
‘That’s me …’
‘My name is Susanna Lancaster. You wrote to me.’
‘Good heavens! Ooooh, thanks for ringing. It’s very kind of you – I didn’t expect …’
‘No problem. You mentioned Deer’s Leap, and Lizzie Frobisher, and the red roses. I’m curious. Can we meet?’
‘Meet! Do you live near, then?’ This was altogether too much!
‘No, but I’m staying in York for a few days. Are you too busy?’ Her voice was soft. She sounded amused, sort of.
‘Of course not!’ Too busy to meet Susanna Lancaster and with her, Susan Smith? ‘Where, please – and when?’
‘Tomorrow. Short notice, I’m afraid, but I’m leaving on the 11.37 in the morning.’
‘Then tomorrow it is!’
‘York station – at ten?’
‘I’ll be there. I’ll wait near the flower stall. And you’ll know me at once. I’ve got red hair!’ My hand was shaking as I put the phone down.
‘Who was that?’ Mum asked, conveniently appearing with coffee.
‘Susanna Lancaster, would you believe?’
‘The one whose books are on TV?’
‘The very same! She’s in York. I wrote to her and I’m to meet her tomorrow at the station. I can’t believe it!’
‘What did she sound like?’ Mum settled herself on my bed.
‘Well – very nice, I suppose. Her voice was low and normal, sort of. I’d expected her to sound like an old lady.’
‘Posh?’
‘N-no. Well spoken, though. I must have sounded like an oik, but I was gob-smacked!’
‘Well, I hope you don’t use words like those when you meet her, or she’ll think all Yorkshire folk are oiks!’ Mum put on her button mouth. ‘And why did you write to her? Because she’s a celebrity?’
‘Yes – but mainly because I think she has connections with Deer’s Leap. I think she lived there, you see, during the war. Well, I am writing about a house that is Deer’s Leap in all but name, aren’t I?’
I couldn’t tell Mum why really I had to meet her. Aunt Jane would have understood, but not Mum!
‘As long as you aren’t pushy, Cassie.’
‘Of course I won’t be! I told her in the letter that the Laburnum Farm in her book sounded very much like Deer’s Leap – I suppose she was curious. And I did tell her I’m a writer, too, so maybe that’s why she said she’d see me.’
‘Pity she didn’t write. You’d have known where she lives then.’
‘Meeting her is better, Mum. Do you think I should take her Ice Maiden? Would giving her a copy of my first book be pushy, do you think?’
‘No,’ Mum said firmly. ‘I’d sign it, if I were you, and put a nice message in it – like “Thank you for meeting me”, or something …’
I wondered if I should write a list of questions I wanted to ask; deciding against it at once. Because I was meeting Susanna Lancaster, not Suzie Smith. I would have to tread carefully, see how things went, before I mentioned Jack Hunter. I couldn’t ask her outright if she was really Susan Smith; tell her that Jack hadn’t forgotten her. You had to be careful too about upsetting elderly ladies; couldn’t fling, ‘By the way, there’s a ghost looking for you – name of Jack Hunter!’ at them.
‘Want anything doing in the house, Mum?’ I asked as she got to her feet.
‘No thanks, love. Best get on with your writing.’
Yet I knew there would be no writing done today. Already my mind was full of Susanna Lancaster and what we would talk about; if she would clam up at the mention of Jack’s name, or the baby girl born in Charlotte Martin’s house just before the end of the war in Europe.
Yet I felt, somehow, that she wouldn’t. Why should she when she had put it in Dragonfly Morning for all to read. And besides, girls who got pregnant out of wedlock didn’t jump in rivers now.
I pulled on warm clothes and wellies for the second time that morning. Oh, my word! Just wait till I told Aunt Jane!
I was early. Still ten minutes to go. I stood at the flower stall, casting a professional eye over the display. It was bitterly cold, and I wished I had worn a woolly scarf.
This morning, before I left, I had tried to let Jeannie know about Susanna Lancaster, but she was in a meeting so I left a cryptic message, asking them to be sure she got it. Cassie phoned. She is meeting Susan Smith in York. She would know exactly what it meant, I told them.
I had footled about a lot, deciding what to wear to meet a famous author; deciding in the end to dress normally – for February, that was. My best jeans and a chunky sweater, with a silk scarf knotted at the neck. And my best boots, of course.
What would Susan be like now? White hair, blue-rinsed? Slightly stooping? Wearing a camel-coloured coat, the collar turned up against the wind?
Had she married? The last chapters of Dragonfly Morning gave no indication of it, but then, after the birth of Kathryn Charlotte, the final pages of the novel were businesslike, almost a resumé, telling about the first short story she had sold to a magazine for three guineas and how, with Charlotte Martin’s guidance, she wrote her first book – and never looked back!
Now that daughter would be in her fifties, with children of her own; would have read Dragonfly Morning and about her conception on a hillside in the moonlight.
A woman stopped to look at the flowers. She carried a Chanel bag and an expensive-looking grip. Her skirt was long and straight; slit to her calves. Beneath the cape she wore, I could see a rose-coloured sweater, and if it wasn’t cashmere, I’d eat my hat! She turned, then saw me, and smiled.
‘Miss Johns? Cassandra?’
‘Y-yes. How did you know?’ I was blushing. I could feel it.
‘Your hair – you told me …’
‘And it doesn’t come redder than mine!’ I took the hand she offered.
‘It’s beautiful. Chestnut. Shall we find somewhere for a coffee?’
I picked up her grip, nodding in the direction of the buffet, still not believing how attractive she was. No sign of the blue rinse. Her hair was a soft ash-blonde and simply, expensively styled. Her face was almost wrinkle-free and her eyebrows looked happy-surprised, sort of.
I found us a corner table, then brought coffees on a tray.
‘I didn’t get you anything to eat,’ I faltered, pulling out the chair opposite. She didn’t look the sort who ate chocolate biscuits between meals.
‘Coffee is fine,’ she smiled. Even her teeth were perfect.
‘I know why he fell in love with you,’ I gasped, my resolve forgotten. ‘I was expecting to meet an old – elderly – lady, and you’re not! And please forgive me? I’m not being pushy, but I feel I know you already – Rosie from Dragonfly Morning, I mean.’
‘Is that why you wanted to meet me? Well, you are right. I am Rosamund Kenton in the story and yes, I lived at Deer’s Leap during the war.’
‘Jean McFadden gave me your book last August. I’ve only now got around to reading it. You signed it for me.’
‘Of course! I remember Jean. She minded me at a luncheon. How is she?’
‘Very well, last time I saw her.’
I took Dragonfly Morning from my shoulder bag, opening it at the title page, pointing to the inscription.
For Cassie, a new author,
From Susanna Lancaster,
an ‘old’ one.
‘I’m writing my third book now, but only the first is in print. I brought you a copy – I hope you’ll accept it.’ I showed her what I had written.
From a very new author
to Susanna Lancaster,
with gratitude.
‘Gratitude?’ She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Will you tell me why?’
‘For letting me share your story – yours and Jack’s,’ I said softly.
‘Jack’s? But only my family know that Dragonfly is more fact than fiction. I asked their permission before I started to write it.’ She looked puzzled.
‘I stayed a month at Deer’s Leap, babysitting the place, and I fell in love with it. Now I’m all chewed up because it’s on the market, and I can’t afford it.’ It was all I could think of to say.
‘You’re nothing if not direct.’
‘I know! I’m always doing it; saying things before I think. But I’m so mixed up, Miss Lancaster, so gobsmacked at meeting you – and Mum said you’d think I was an oik if I used words like that!’
‘Why did you write to me, Cassandra? Really, I mean?’
‘Because yours was such a lovely love – yours and Jack’s – and because I envy it, even though you had each other for such a short time, and –’
‘But in the book we were Jon and Rosie. How did you know – guess?’
‘Because Aunt Jane and I are sort of psychic, and because – I – I asked questions in Acton Carey – Bill Jarvis and Mrs Taylor. Lizzie Frobisher, wasn’t she? I found out about the Smiths at Deer’s Leap, and I saw a name on the war memorial and –’
‘And, Cassandra?’ she prompted. Her voice was gentle, her eyes curious. She didn’t seem upset or annoyed at the way I had crashed into her life; her long-ago life.
‘I wasn’t going to say this – not until I’d had the chance to prove to you I’m not imagining things – but I’ve got to say it, and I’m so very sorry …’
Her eyes met mine, and held them for a second. Then she stirred her coffee and said, ‘What are you sorry about, Cassandra?’
‘For blundering in. What happened all those years ago should be no business of mine. But I got caught up in it. I didn’t have a lot of choice. And I wanted to help him because I found him attractive. But mostly it was because he loved you so much.’
‘Like I said, in the book he was Jon – so who told you his name was Jack? Lizzie, was it?’
‘No. He told me.’
I was glaring down at my hands because I couldn’t bear to look at her. She was so gentle, so beautiful, so very talented that I had no right to be sitting at the same table, let alone clodhopping over her memories.
‘Jack was killed more than fifty years ago,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, I accept that. But he’s still looking for you, Miss Lancaster.’ My eyes filled with tears and I did nothing to stop them. ‘He doesn’t know he’s dead. I think I’m a medium, you see. People like me attract people like him to us. I met him last year. It was a beautiful day. He was at the side of the lane, near six oaks; wanted to get to Deer’s Leap, he said.’
‘So …?’ She ran her tongue round her lips and breathed in deeply.
‘So you think I’m a nasty little piece who’s read your book and out to get herself noticed – pretending I saw a ghost who’s looking for his girl and who thinks it’s still 1944. I’m not, though. I saw him several times, and Beth – Jean McFadden’s sister – has seen him, too. Quite a few have, but they don’t say anything because they don’t want the press nosing around Acton Carey. And I didn’t mean to tell you so – so brutally. It just slipped out.’
I fished for a tissue and dabbed at my eyes, disliking myself for what I had done to her and what I’d done to myself, too, because it was obvious she thought I was unfeeling enough to try such a stunt. She just had to!
‘Dry your eyes, my dear,’ she smiled. ‘Shall we have another coffee?’
‘You don’t believe me,’ I choked.
‘Well – let’s just say that it wouldn’t be too hard to put two and two together, once you’d read Dragonfly Morning, and come up with –’
‘Twenty-two,’ I said miserably.
‘You are a writer, Cassandra – and I shall read your book with especial interest now that I’ve met you – but we are all the same. We have to be, or we wouldn’t be writers. We live with our imaginations, most of the time; live off them, too!’
‘But there was so much, Miss Lancaster! The way he pushed his hair out of the way, with his left hand; the way he called her Suzie …’
‘But everything was in the book for you to read. Are you sure you didn’t take it all in, then let your imagination take over? And are you sure that Lizzie Taylor didn’t mention his name to you?’
‘She might have. I’m not sure. But he told me the very first time we met that his name was Jack Hunter. And he called you Suzie …’
‘Look – I don’t think I want another coffee, and it’s getting near train time.’ She collected up her gloves and bag.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, picking up her grip. ‘What must you think of me? Please forgive me?’
‘Only if you walk with me to the train.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘I wanted to have a couple of days in York,’ she smiled as we walked up the steps of the bridge. ‘I’m glad I did. It’s so like Chester – unchanging.’
She was trying to change the subject, but I didn’t want her to!
‘Aunt Lottie lived near Chester, didn’t she? I was so glad you went to see her and stayed with her to have your little girl. And I won’t say any more about it,’ I said hastily, ‘because I don’t want you to think I’m a pushy, one-book writer, trying to latch onto someone like you. I’m not pushy, even though I came to your Lancaster house, looking for you.’
‘Then you would find I had left. I’ve bought another house. I’m having a few things done to it, and the decorators are in. I’m staying with Kate, meantime. She still lives in Aunt Lottie’s house – Charlotte Martin was her name. I knew she wouldn’t mind me using it in Dragonfly Morning.’
‘You don’t have to be kind to me.’ We were standing on platform five now, and soon we would part. ‘You’re being so decent that I’ll be miserable about today for the rest of my life. I’m going to write four books, y’know, starting at 1592. They’ll all centre on Deer’s Leap, so I won’t ever be able quite to forget today. And it’ll hurt more because some other woman will look out at the view from that kitchen window. Serves me right, I suppose, for the things I’ve said to you.’
‘That house has made an impression on you – the time you stayed there, I mean.’
‘I shall never forget that one summer at Deer’s Leap. Even at this very minute, some awful woman could be looking it over, finding fault to try to get the price down!’
‘It is a lovely house. I can understand you wanting it.’
‘Is this your train, Miss Lancaster? It goes to Liverpool, it says.’
‘That’s right. I change at Manchester for Chester. Kate will meet me there.’
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’
‘I don’t know, Cassandra. Maybe because something inside me wants you to have met Jack, though my sensible side says you were influenced by Dragonfly Morning. On the other hand, it might be because I am like my grandson. Like me, he seems to get on well with redheads – but for an entirely different reason!’
‘Kate had a son?’ The train was standing at the platform, doors open.
‘Just the one child.’
‘Are you sure I’m forgiven?’ I whispered. ‘I did so want you to believe me.’
The tears were pricking again and I squeezed my eyes tightly, so they wouldn’t come.
‘I would like to believe you, but like I said, it was all there in the book to –’ She stopped, embarrassed.
‘For me to make up a story about, you mean?’
‘We-e-ll – yes. If only there was some small thing you could tell me that wasn’t in the book; something only you and I could know.’
‘There isn’t. I’ve got to agree it was all there in Dragonfly Morning. Even the fact that Rosie took a candle to bed. But I met your Jack ever before I read the book, don’t forget. And by the way, I liked your father. Did you really never see your parents again?’
‘I kept in touch with Dad – on his birthday, and at Christmas. When we could, we spoke on the phone. He died of a heart attack before they got Deer’s Leap back. I went to his funeral, but my mother didn’t know I was there. It was only by chance I got to know, but at least I said goodbye to him. My mother returned, briefly, to the house when the war was over, but it was never a farm again – never really my Deer’s Leap. When she died, she left it to the local hospice, who sold it, I believe to a man who’d won the pools.’
‘I’m glad you said a goodbye to your father. I want you to say one to Jack – so he can rest,’ I said softly, ‘but it won’t ever be possible.’
‘Cassandra – I do so want to believe you! Isn’t there anything at all you can remember?’
‘No. Sorry.’ All I had hoped for was slipping away from me. ‘He was so solid and real. I thought he was all done up for the fancy dress party I was going to. His stripes, the way his hair was cut. I asked him where he’d got his uniform because he looked so authentic. He said they threw the uniform at you; it was only the wings that were hard to come by.
‘He was even carrying a respirator; his number was stamped on the front of it, in black, though I don’t remember what it was. Maybe you would believe me, if I could. There was a little heart there, too, and S. S. beside it, on the strap and –’
‘There was what? What did you say?’
‘A heart, the size of my thumbnail, and initials, inside the strap. I don’t think I read that in the book.’
‘You didn’t! What colour were they?’
‘Well – a sort of purple, I suppose …’
‘Yes! There were no ballpoint pens, nor felt-tips, in those days. We often used an indelible pencil. You moistened the tip on your tongue, and it looked like purple ink. And, oh! I’ll have to get on!’ A guard, whistle poised, was looking at us pointedly and she made for the nearest door. I picked up her grip and handed it to her.
‘I’ll ring you tonight,’ she called as the doors began to slide shut. ‘From Kate’s!’
I watched the train go, not believing any of it; that I had found Susan Smith who hadn’t believed me until I mentioned something quite unimportant. Initials, and a heart beside them. The sort of thing lovers do – did – a long time ago.
I was shaking, but whether from relief or because I was so full up, I couldn’t tell. It seemed, now, that all I wanted was to get back to Greenleas and wait for the call – if she rang, that was. It would serve me right, I supposed, if she didn’t.
And what was Jeannie going to say when I told her?
‘My word,’ Mum said. ‘You know when to put in an appearance! I thought you’d decided to make a day of it. Soup?’
‘Please.’ I washed my hands at the sink, drying them thoughtfully.
‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What was she like then? What happened? Was she pleased with your book?’
‘She was nice, and really beautiful – elegant. And we talked, and yes, she seemed quite pleased with Ice Maiden.’
‘And …?’
‘Mum! We had thirty minutes! She had to catch a train to Chester – her daughter was meeting her.’
‘So what was she doing in York in February?’
‘Having a short break, I suppose. She’d always wanted to see it, she said.’
‘I’ll have another slice please, Lyd, if you’re cutting.’
Dad didn’t seem one bit interested – but then, he didn’t know what I knew; Mum neither.
‘And I forgot!’ Mum paused, bread knife poised. ‘Jeannie rang. She’s ringing back, after two.’
‘Fine! Jeannie met Susanna Lancaster, too. It was when I was at Deer’s Leap for the month. Harriers are Susanna’s publishers, too.’
‘Yes. You said. But what did you talk about?’
‘Oh, this and that. About writing, and about her last novel – and my first one. And she said she once lived at Deer’s Leap.’
‘Well, now!’ All at once, Mum was interested. ‘When was that?’
‘She and her parents left it during the war – never went back. But it’s all in Dragonfly Morning. I’ve finished it now, so I think you ought to read it. It would explain a lot!’
The phone rang, and Mum went to answer it.
‘That was the pub.’ She sat down at the table again, annoyed at the interruption. ‘They’ve had a lot of bookings for tonight for dinners. Need more sprouts. Can you let them have three pounds? I told them yes, but we don’t deliver. They’re sending someone to collect them.’
‘They can darn well pick ’em, an’ all!’ Picking icy sprouts on a February day isn’t Dad’s most favourite pastime.
‘So not a lot happened, Cassie?’ Mum seemed disappointed.
‘You can’t say much in half an hour. But she did say she would ring tonight.’
‘Why?’ Dad asked, being perverse, I suppose, because of the sprouts.
‘I don’t know! Maybe because she wants to talk some more – maybe let me know she got back to Chester all right. Does it matter? I met her, and she was lovely. You can tell Piers’s mother, next time you see her. Tell her your daughter had coffee with the famous Susanna Lancaster!’
‘Y-yes …’ Mum smiled wickedly. ‘Make a change from that dratted engagement!’
‘I’ll wash the dishes for you,’ I offered when we’d finished, ‘then I’ve got to get on with some work, catch up on the words.’
‘You wouldn’t like to pick three pounds of sprouts?’ Dad grinned.
‘Now how would I be able to type,’ I grinned back, ‘with frozen fingers?’ All at once, I felt good!
Jeannie was on the phone for ten minutes, delighted at what I told her. ‘But, Cassie, what are you going to say when she phones? Suggest you both go to Deer’s Leap; try to find the pilot? This isn’t what I’d call ghost-hunting weather. You could walk up and down that lane for days, and still he mightn’t show, and the two of you frozen stiff!’
‘Jeannie! I don’t know how she’s going to take it. Maybe she’ll tell me when she rings tonight. At first, you see, she wouldn’t buy it, till I told her about the heart and the initials. We had to leave it there. Her train was pulling out. The last thing she said was that she would ring tonight. I’m just praying she’ll believe me now. And nothing can happen yet. She’s living with her daughter near Chester at the moment. She’s bought another house, but it isn’t ready to move into, so she won’t want to do anything till she’s got herself settled, now will she?’
‘Did she tell you where the house is?’
‘No. I didn’t ask. But at least I’ve got hopes that we can meet again at Deer’s Leap, perhaps when summer comes. I want so much for Suzie and Jack to at least say goodbye.’
‘Cassie! Be careful! Lancaster might be like me – not able to tune in on ghosts. You saw the pilot the day after Beth and Danny came back from Cornwall but I didn’t! What will you do then?’
‘I’ll worry about it if it happens. I know it will happen, if only I can persuade her to go with me to Acton Carey. She and Jack loved too much for him not to know when she was about.’
‘And is she married? Was she wearing a ring?’
‘Not a wedding ring. She did have a lovely sapphire on her third finger, left hand, though. Exactly like Diana’s …’
‘Romantic, I suppose. Wish I could meet a bloke like Jack Hunter. The ones I come across are very forgettable! But let me know what happens, will you?’
I said I would, and put the phone down, my elation leaving me, because all at once I knew Susanna Lancaster wouldn’t ring again. Why should she?
I felt restless, which isn’t good for wordage; began to think I’d have done better offering to pick the sprouts. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply.
‘Cassie!’ I hissed. ‘Pull yourself together and get some work done! Sitting here agonizing doesn’t buy houses!’ Not a house like Deer’s Leap, it didn’t!
Yet even as I switched on the machine, I knew Deer’s Leap was sold. It was so beautiful, such a very desirable residence, that it had to be! And if ever Susanna Lancaster and I made it to six oaks or the squeaking iron gate, it was going to hurt like mad just thinking about the lucky cat who had beat me to it!
‘Cassandra?’
‘Oooh! Thank you for ringing. I’d convinced myself you wouldn’t.’
‘I nearly didn’t – but I’m curious. And I suppose I want to believe you saw Jack.’
‘I did.’
‘Right! So what happens now?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot – shall we give it a try when the better weather comes? Maybe when you’ve got settled into your new place, it could be. And I know this is a cheek, but could you possibly make it to Acton Carey; stay a couple of days? The Red Rose does bed and breakfast.’
‘Y-yes. I’m sure we could work something out.’
‘We must, Miss Lancaster. I only hope we can send some vibes out – let Jack know we are looking for him. How long, do you think, before you can get into your house?’
‘Not too long. In fact, I plan to have the place up and running and well aired by the end of March. I’ll have all the time in the world, then.’
‘I don’t know exactly how we’ll manage it, but we’ll do our best to be there, for Jack. Wasn’t it strange that right at the last minute, I should mention the heart?’
‘It was. I drew it on the strap of his gas mask, when I saw him off on leave from Preston station. He told me I’d get him into trouble for defacing Air Ministry property! I didn’t put it in Dragonfly, though.’
‘I think I know when it was. You’d said your hair was in need of a trim; an excuse so you could get away. And Jack told you not to have it cut too short. He liked your hair long.’
‘Yes. That was the afternoon the purple heart happened …’
‘You won’t change your mind, will you? When the days start getting warmer, you will meet me there – try to find him?’
‘I promise. And you’ll see Lizzie again, Cassandra. Or should I call her Bessie? She told me you’d been asking questions. She remembered your hair, you see.’
‘But when did you meet? How did you meet?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was in the area, looking at houses. There was one I wanted very much to buy, but I couldn’t make up my mind – for all sorts of reasons. So I went to Acton Carey, and saw the war memorial with Jack’s name on it, and that settled it for me. I was walking away, just a bit full up, when someone said, “So you’re back at last, Susan Smith! Well, you’d better come in for a cup of tea, because I’ve got something to give you! Kept them fifty-five years; reckoned we’d meet up again one fine day …”’
‘Oh, how wonderful! I liked Mrs Taylor. Imagine Bessie Drake marrying a curate!’
Susanna laughed, and I knew everything was going to be all right.
‘He ended up a parish priest, and Bessie – Lizzie – came back to Acton Carey, a widow, to retire in one of the vicarage flats – but you know that.’
‘You’ll be meeting again, I hope?’
‘No doubt about it! I gave her a copy of Dragonfly Morning, asked her to read it, told her she was in it, too. And that it would explain everything. We keep in touch by letter, and phone weekends.’
‘How lovely! And can you and I keep in touch – for Jack’s sake I mean? Just the odd letter?’
‘We must, or how are we to arrange things? Quite a few weeks, yet, until I move in.’
‘Yes. But you’ll be busy and I’ll be busy, too. The time will soon pass.’
‘I’m sure it will. But what if I haven’t got your powers; if I’m not psychic, I mean? Would Jack appear if there were negative vibes around?’
‘I’m sure he would, because you wouldn’t be sending out bad vibes, would you, because you want to meet him again? I met him once when I was with Jeannie, but she didn’t see him! She got quite cross with me. But you won’t frighten him off, if that’s what you are thinking.’ I felt so confident, so absolutely sure, that I didn’t feel one bit guilty about raising her hopes. She and Jack would meet again, I knew it. ‘But this call must be costing the earth! We’ve been on for ages!’
‘Worth it, though! But we’ll keep in touch, till we can arrange something. And, Cassandra – you are a writer, so you know the value of punchlines, don’t you?’
‘Where to end a chapter, you mean? The very last line that’s got to be special, so the reader will want to keep turning pages? Yes – I’m learning about punchlines!’
‘Then here’s a punchline for me to end this call with! I bought Deer’s Leap, two months ago, so you’ll be able to come and stay in April, won’t you? Bye. See you!’
She hung up before I could reply, which was just as well come to think of it, because I stood for ages looking at the receiver before I put it down.
‘Flaming Norah!’ I whispered. ‘Oh, Aunt Jane! You knew all the time, didn’t you!’
Then I ran to tell Mum the wonderful news.