I stopped the Mini at six oaks, telling myself I was back again; thinking how pretty the sloe blossom looked, frothing white in the hedges. And to notice that the oak trees had not broken leaf, yet, and that everything was familiar and precious, like always.
But it wasn’t entirely the coming-home feeling that caused me to pull in at the side of the road. I had stopped, truth known, and wound down the window so I could send out messages; let Jack Hunter know I was at Deer’s Leap, and that he had better be aware of the fact.
Such a shock, Susanna Lancaster’s triumphant punchline; discovering she was the rich bitch who had snapped up Deer’s Leap. A happy shock, really, because if I couldn’t have it, then it was best that she should.
She was brave, for all that, going back to her green years and all the happiness and heartbreak to be lived over again. Yet I felt nothing but delight, because soon I would see the lovely old house again; drive up the dirt road to the white gate ahead, and beside it the little iron gate, painted shiny black.
Would she be waiting as Jeannie had been, that very first time? And, more important than anything, would I see Jack Hunter at the roadside and would he ask for a lift to Deer’s Leap?
Would there be a flock of sheep ahead and could I, should I, tell him his Suzie was back, and would he please not disappear through the rusty, creaking gate. Just this once?
I turned the key in the ignition, then crawled past the spot. He wasn’t there, so I sent white-hot vibes through the window, then picked up speed.
Jack wasn’t coming, today; nor was there a flock of slow-moving sheep ahead as I rounded the bend to see the crossroads and the right turn to Deer’s Leap, hidden by a hawthorn hedge in new green leaf.
Susanna was not at the white gate, but it had been obligingly opened. I drove through, my stomach making noises, then glanced in the rear-view mirror.
I hadn’t realized someone was standing there. Her hair was grey, and permed into tight curls; she had a cigarette in her hand and was still wearing the green cardigan.
‘Mrs Taylor!’ I grinned. ‘Or are you Lizzie, or Bessie?’
‘Be blowed if I know. Lizzie, I think, like always. Susan said you were coming, and that I was to be here to meet you. Still asking questions, are you?’
‘No. Think I’ve got most of the answers, now.’
‘Ah. Read Dragonfly Morning, did you? I quite enjoyed being in a book. Trouble is, I can’t tell anybody that it’s me Bessie Drake is based on, and that there’s more truth in it than fiction. Wouldn’t be right, now would it? Not round here. Poor Susan. If she wasn’t so rich, I’d feel sorry for her.’ She drew hard on the cigarette, then threw it into the hedge. ‘Not allowed to smoke in the house.’ She pulled down the corners of her mouth. ‘I was asked to keep an eye open for you if the lady of the house wasn’t back in time. She’s having her hair done in Clitheroe.’
‘I’m early. Nearly an hour. Y’know, that day we met – when you were cleaning the church – I didn’t know I was going to read all about you in a book. Bessie was a lovely character, wasn’t she?’
‘Spare my blushes, if you don’t mind. And can you shift your car up a bit, so Susan can get hers in? I’ve got the kettle on. She shouldn’t be long.’
I opened the boot and took out the potted plants I had brought with me. Not a lot in the garden now the daffodils were almost over, Dad said; and daffodils would be coals to Newcastle, so best take plants.
‘What do you think to the kitchen?’ Mrs Taylor said smugly, opening the door with a flourish.
‘Oh, my word! The old firegrate has gone!’
An Aga stood in its place; a kettle puffed complacently on it.
‘Like it?’
I said I did because not too much had changed. Newly decorated, of course, with William Morris-type wallpaper and a new terracotta tile floor. ‘I’m glad she has come home. It must have taken a bit of doing.’
‘I think it did, but she’s got herself together now, I think. And there she is! Away you go, and say hullo.’
I waited on the step, and she smiled and said, ‘Welcome back to Deer’s Leap, Cassandra.’
‘You beat me to it,’ I smiled. ‘I was going to say, “Welcome home, Susan Smith.” I like your kitchen.’
‘Wait until you see the rest of the house.’
‘You haven’t changed it too much, have you?’
‘No. Only, shall we say, enough …’
I knew exactly what she meant, so I asked her if she was sleeping in the bedroom above the kitchen again.
‘No. I sleep above the sitting room now.’
‘The room with the marvellous view.’ I felt so at home I wanted to hug myself.
‘That’s the one! But I see Lizzie has been making herself useful.’
A teatray was set, and she was putting the cosy on the teapot.
‘I’m not staying, Susan. You two’ll have a lot to talk about. Give me a ring, when you know what your plans are?’
‘I’ll run you back home, Mrs Taylor. It won’t take a minute, ’ I offered.
‘Thanks, but no. I like walking, and besides, I want –’
‘A cigarette,’ Susan finished, smiling wickedly.
‘As a matter of fact, I do. Nice to see you again, Cassandra.
We’ll have a chat, soon. And don’t bother to come to the gate with me, Susan.’
‘Tell me, please,’ I asked when she had gone, ‘are you Miss Lancaster or Miss Smith?’
‘Susan, I think. After all, we are both writers. And I’m sure Mrs Taylor won’t mind if you call her Lizzie.’
‘I’m still inclined to think of her as Bessie, and you as Rosamund – Rosie.’
‘Whichever! Now let’s have that tea, then I’ll show you your room.’
‘Am I up the back stairs, like before?’
‘No. That bedroom is my office, now.’
‘So Dragonfly Morning isn’t to be your last book?’
‘I – oh, I don’t know! I’d thought it would be, but there is such a buzz of words in my head that I can’t be certain.’
‘What might it be about – or don’t you discuss plots with other writers?’
‘I’d like to talk to you about it.’ She stirred her tea, slowly and for too long, as if arranging the words in the right order before she said them. ‘It might be a bit historical. I know you are doing books based on Deer’s Leap and it gave me the idea to research Fellfoot – see if there was a story there. Just something to keep me out of mischief once I’ve got Deer’s Leap to my liking …’
‘Fellfoot? Would you be laying ghosts, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know. Will you come with me to Fellfoot, Cassandra?’
‘Of course I will. I haven’t seen it, nor the pond. I’d have thought the place might have fallen down, or been vandalized.’
‘Neither. Fellfoot was built solid, but it’s in a sad state, for all that.’
‘And you think something of Jack might still be there?’
‘I did, but there’s nothing – not this far. I’ve been there quite a few times, since I came home.’ She sipped her tea and I knew she was arranging words again. ‘Do you remember the bit in Dragonfly when Bessie said she had something to give to Rosamund before she left Deer’s Leap for Skipton?’
‘Yes. A parting present, wasn’t it? Rosamund thought it would be one of Bessie’s school prizes, and quite precious?’
‘I was wrong. Lizzie gave it – them – to me the day we met again after all those years. She had kept them all that time, would you believe? There was a snap of me, sitting on the big, flat stone beside the pond – and Jack’s last letter.
‘Young men who flew used to write a last letter; leave it behind to be posted in case they didn’t make it back. When first Jack was killed, I used to hope he had written one to me, but nothing came, so I told myself it was because we had both been so confident J-Johnnie would make the tour of ops safely, that he hadn’t done it.’
‘But then came the daylight raid …’ I prompted.
‘Jack’s thirty-eighth. He had written a letter long before that last op; even before he knew about the baby, but it was addressed to me care of Lizzie. He thought, I suppose, it would have a better chance of getting to me, the way things were at home. Some day, when we know each other better, I’ll let you read it. I had looked over Deer’s Leap; been hesitating about making an offer for it, so I walked down to Acton Carey, to look at the war memorial …’
‘Trying to find an answer there?’ I said gently.
‘Yes. And there was. I met Lizzie, and she gave me Jack’s letter, and the snap. That settled it for me. It was as if Jack was asking me to come back.’ Then the remembering left her eyes and she said, brightly, ‘Another cup, then perhaps you can get unpacked? Kate isn’t coming until after you’ve gone, but Josh might make it, he said last night when he rang. He’s clearing some woodland near Chichester, and it’s taking a bit longer than he thought.’
‘Is that what your grandson does?’
‘I suppose you’d call him an arborist, but he says his work is looking after trees. He loves trees; couldn’t have chosen a better career.’
‘You love trees, too. It hurt, didn’t it, when the beeches were felled because of the aerodrome?’
‘It hurt a lot. But Josh intends planting five more for me. Deer’s Leap is for him. He intends making the paddock into a nursery for young trees, and there’ll be plenty of work around here. He’ll live here permanently.’ Her eyes lit on the plants on the draining board. ‘Are those for me? How lovely!’
‘Home grown,’ I said proudly. ‘Dad thought the viburnum should do well outside. He’s seen Deer’s Leap. He and Mum visited when I was house-sitting.’
‘Then Josh shall plant the little bush. How do I look after the other one? It’s a peace lily, isn’t it?’
‘Water moderately, except when it’s in flower. Bright light, but not direct sun. And spray the leaves, occasionally. You’re talking to a market gardener’s daughter. I’m good with growing things, too!’
‘Then you and Josh will have quite a lot in common. I do hope he gets here before you go, Cassandra. But get unpacked, then it’ll be time to eat. After, maybe we might take a look at Fellfoot …?’
‘I’d like that.’ I was touched, truth known, that she was letting me share her memories. ‘Is it very much changed? Will I see a dragonfly?’
‘No. It’s a bit early in the year for them, but the willow is still there, quietly dying. And the pond is almost empty; not as much water about, it seems.’
‘Will it be possible to see inside the house, or are the floors unsafe?’
‘It’s all unsafe now. It has had to be fenced off. If one of those heavy roof slabs fell onto anyone, it could be serious. Fellfoot has a stone roof. It’s older, even, than Deer’s Leap.’
‘Didn’t you find it a bit upsetting, seeing it like that?’
‘Not any longer. I’ve been there three times alone. Tonight, after you have seen it, I shall tell it goodbye. But first things first. I’ll take you to your room. I think you’ll like it …’
It was still light when we set out for Fellfoot. The higher we climbed, the more slippery the grass became with evening dew; and I offered my arm to Susan.
At the pond, she took a photograph from her jacket pocket. It was in black and white, faded to sepia, yet even so it did nothing to detract from the beauty of the young girl sitting on a stone with a weeping willow behind her.
‘Lizzie had managed to get a film for her camera. Films were very scarce in those days, and precious. That snap was for Jack. You can see how it used to be here. The willow is sickly now because it isn’t getting as much water as it should, and the pond is little more than a bog. Even the stone I was sitting on is overgrown. And you won’t see a dragonfly, Cassandra. There are no pond insects now for it to feed on.’
‘It’s very sad,’ I said gently, wondering how she could bear to come here.
‘Yes, but look! The little house still hangs on.’
Fellfoot was ringed round with a sturdy fence, and on the padlocked gate was a very official-looking notice to warn off trespassers. I was seeing for the first time the house where long-ago lovers met secretly; something from a work of fiction that all at once was very real. The mossgrown roof was still there; the windows still boarded up. Greening around the foundations and up the walls told a sorry story.
‘I suppose it never had a damp course?’
‘No. Fellfoot is in a fold, you see. When it was built, the rising ground either side sheltered it from wind and the worst of the weather, but now water has started to collect in the dip.’
‘So what will happen to it?’
‘It will die slowly, like the willow. It’s why I won’t come back after tonight.’
‘Do you want to leave now?’ The sky was beginning to darken to the west.
‘Yes.’ She turned abruptly and walked away without even a backward glance.
‘Give me your arm,’ I said gently. ‘And thank you for showing me the place where you were both so happy. The dragonfly morning, I mean, at the pond, when Jack had finished his tour of operations, and everything seemed to be coming right for you both.’
‘Seemed. Yet on the whole, I’ve had a good life, Cassandra, though I really think the morning Jack and I met here and I told him that …’
‘That you were carrying Kate,’ I finished for her, when her words trailed into silence.
‘Yes. That hour we spent here was the most perfect I shall ever know. Over the years, if I get a feeling-sorry-for-myself mood on me, I remember the dragonfly morning, and it comes right again, and I’m glad.’
‘Glad you had Kate?’
‘Yes. Because of Kate, I didn’t quite lose Jack. And I have a grandson.’
‘You’ve got the lot, almost. And as an author, you’re a household name. You haven’t lost your looks either,’ I added, just a little bit peevishly.
‘Goodness! Flattery will get you everywhere! But I do cheat a bit. My hair is good, but completely white. I have a blonde rinse on it,’ she laughed, in charge of her emotions again. ‘And my smile is the result of an orthodontist’s skill. But it was always there at the back of my mind, you see. I tried to stay young for Jack; keep things as they were. Foolish old woman, aren’t I, because Jack is in the little churchyard near Primrose Cottage. Kate will look after him now that I’m living here.’
‘Do you ever wonder how life would have been if that daylight raid on the rocket site hadn’t happened?’
‘All the time! I don’t suppose I’d have become Susanna Lancaster, though; been too busy being a wife and mother. I think we’d have had three children; two girls and a boy. But once the edge is off the hurt, remembering is quite a comfort. And all my memories of Jack are good ones. I’m luckier than most.’
We had got to the road, and the signpost that once had the arms removed because of enemy parachutists.
‘Have you ever tried to find Jack,’ I said out of the blue when we were near the iron gate.
‘If trying to find him means thinking about him constantly, and loving him and wanting him, still – then yes, I’ve tried – ‘especially since I came back to Deer’s Leap. I have stood at six oaks and beside the kissing gate and in the hayloft – or where it used to be before someone altered the outbuildings around. And I’ve been to Fellfoot, too, but he isn’t there either. I think I’m going to need help if I’m to meet him just once more; ask him to wait a little longer for me. Now you are here, Cassandra, it might happen.’
‘So you do believe I have seen him, talked to him?’ I said softly, hoping I hadn’t made her wish for something that might not happen.
‘Sometimes I believe; sometimes I don’t. All I really know is that deep down, I want it to be true.’
When we had built up the sitting-room fire, kicked off our shoes and curled up in the big, squashy chairs either side of it, she said, ‘Now! Tea, coffee, or a real drink?’
‘Do you have any sherry?’
‘Dry, medium, or sweet-pale?’
‘Medium, please. Are you going to have one, too?’
‘I rather think I am,’ she smiled.
‘To Deer’s Leap!’ I raised my glass. ‘And to Susan Smith, who has come home.’
‘Bless you. Deer’s Leap is really for Josh. He and I are very close, and he’d like nothing more than for me to live out my days here. But I hope he’ll marry, and have the children this old house needs.’
‘Josh has a girlfriend?’
‘Not a regular one, though I fancy he’s dipped a toe in the water a time or two. I think he’s ready to settle down, now college is behind him, but I have a strong feeling he’ll be like me. When he meets the right one, he’ll know at once.’
‘What is he like?’ This far, I hadn’t seen a photograph of him anywhere in the house. Of Jack, yes! Jack on Susan’s bedside table; smiling from the desk top, the mantelshelf – yet none of his grandson.
‘You’ll know – soon, I hope.’ She smiled.
‘This house doesn’t appear to have had many children – not actually born here,’ I said, with the First of the Deer’s Leap books in mind. ‘Margaret Dacre didn’t have any, and Jeannie’s sister’s children weren’t born here.’
‘Nor was I. I was born in Ribchester – came here as a baby.’
‘In Dragonfly Morning, Rosie once asked about her grandparents. Was that bit fact, or fiction?’
‘Sadly, it’s fact. My mother cut herself off from her parents.’
‘Did you ever know why?’
‘I’ve had thoughts about it from time to time. I suppose it’s wrong of me, but the only thing that makes any sense is that she was – well – when she was young, someone …’
‘You mean she was molested! But I thought that sort of thing didn’t happen in those days!’
‘Oh, but it did! The only difference, as far as I can see, is that if a child complained, or made accusations, it was never believed. They didn’t have Childline then. It would account for her coldness; for her leaving home and marrying the minute she came into her inheritance; for a lot of things. To my mother, that sort of thing was – dirty. Looking back, I don’t know how my father put up with the way things were. I loved Dad, y’know.’
‘But you and Jack still fell in love, in spite of your mother.’
‘Oh, yes! It was instant! We loved, and were in love! I ached for him; couldn’t wait to be loved. Reckon we’d have had more than three children, Cassandra!’ She smiled, impishly. ‘Kate was my fault, you know. I wanted Jack so much that night, so we were careless – just the once.’
‘You must have loved him very much.’
‘Did. Do. Always will. I hope we’ll get our second chance. I’m depending on it – reincarnation, I mean.’
‘Miss Lancaster – Susan!’ All at once, I couldn’t bear it. ‘What am I doing here?’ My voice was shaky because a wobble of tears in my throat was getting in the way of my words. ‘You invite me, a stranger, to your home, take me into your confidence, open your heart to me – treat me like a friend. Why, will you tell me?’
‘Because you are like Lizzie. You knew – know – Jack.’
‘But I’m only here for a week! We might not see him!’
‘Then we’ll keep trying till we do. You’ll have to come here often to do research for your books, won’t you? We’ll have plenty of chances, and I feel he’s very near,’ she said gently. ‘It’s going to come right, I know it. And don’t look so woebegone. Don’t be sad for me. Jack and I talked about being lovers; decided the risk was worth it. During that war, there seemed to be an urgency to know what love was like, because tomorrow you might be dead. Jack and I got Kate on the hillside, under a full moon, yet I never thought we were doing wrong. We loved so desperately that what society thought about pre-marital sex didn’t apply to Jack and me.’
‘I suppose there wouldn’t have been so much agonizing if your generation had had the pill, like mine has.’
‘It would have made a lot of difference, I suppose, but if the pill had been around fifty-odd years ago, I’m almost sure it would have been frowned on. Nice girls were expected to be innocent; nicely reared young ladies weren’t supposed to know about birth control.’
‘Funny, but losing your virginity doesn’t count for much nowadays. Things have changed a lot in fifty-odd years.’
‘When I was growing up, Cassandra, the risk of conceiving kept most girls on the straight and narrow until their wedding night. Only those who were madly in love risked it. You had to be utterly besotted, when you thought of the disgrace and trouble there would be if anything went wrong. There was no such thing as a legal abortion, then. You carried the baby, even if it was a rape child.’
‘It’s a pity you weren’t of age until you were twenty-one,’ I sighed.
‘Pity? It’s a crying shame. If I had been of age at eighteen, I think Jack and I would have been married right away! But if you had told me about the freedom girls have these days, I wouldn’t have believed you. Oh, how I do go on! What must you think of me, Cassandra?’
‘I almost envy you,’ I said after I had thought over the question. ‘Yes. I really envy you the way you loved. I’m not a virgin. With me, it was curiosity. I wasn’t in love with the man. Then I met Jack, who was looking for you, and I was certain as I could be that he was the kind of man I could fall in love with. Only he belongs to you; always will. I found him so attractive I once decided that if I had been around in those days. I’d have given you a run for your money! There now! What do you think to that!’
‘It makes me feel rather smug that I have exclusive rights,’ she laughed. ‘But to change the subject – I think that tomorrow I should ring Lizzie. We could take her for a pub lunch, perhaps?’
‘I’d like that.’ It would be fun, meeting Bill Jarvis again. ‘I’ll drive.’
I would have to, though it would mean not having a drink at the Red Rose. Jack Hunter had responded to my car. Even if ghosts don’t see in colour, I hoped he would recognize the Mini again.
‘And I think that if we go out, we should always use my car. It’s a two-door job – so could you perhaps sit in the back, Susan, when we do – leave the front seat available, kind of?’
‘Whatever you think best. You are the go-between, Cassandra. I don’t think I’m psychic enough to do it alone. But do we always have to drive? The car isn’t absolutely essential, is it?’
‘No. I think the power of love is way ahead of anything the internal combustion engine can offer. If we are to see Jack, he’ll be there, no matter what.’
‘I hope so. But then I try to think about it dispassionately and my Lancashire common sense tells me I’m a woman who’s had more than her three-score years and ten; who has a close, loving family and is financially secure. What more dare I ask of life?’
‘To say goodbye to Jack,’ I said softly.
‘But why me? What’s so special about Susan Smith?’
‘The fact that she was loved – is still loved …’
‘There’s no such thing as ghosts, Cassandra!’ She jumped to her feet, crossing the room to stare, arms folded, out of the window.
‘I’ve seen one.’ I went to her side. ‘Susan – do you think I’d do anything so completely rotten as to raise your hopes just for the hell of it? OK – so we are both writers and prone to flights of fancy – but I met Jack, I swear I did, or how could I have known about the purple heart?’
She looked long into my eyes, then sighed and whispered, ‘How could you indeed? And I want so desperately to see him – just say that last goodbye, y’know …’
‘I do know.’ I laid an arm around her shoulders. ‘And it’s been a long day for us both. Maybe we should go to bed. I’ll bring you a milky drink if you would like.’
‘I’d like that very much – and tomorrow is another day, isn’t it? Maybe tomorrow we’ll be lucky …’
I drew back my curtains, got into bed, then switched out the light. My room was smaller than when I was last at Deer’s Leap, because part of it had been taken for an en-suite bathroom. It was a very feminine room and had a view right over to the hilltops. I felt so completely at home in it that I half expected Tommy to jump, purring loudly, onto the bed.
I lay still, my eyes adjusting to the brighter rectangle of light that was the window, thinking about Jack Hunter, reaching out with my mind to him, breathing softly so I might hear the howl of a dog called Shep, and the distant sound of returning bombers.
But the silence was complete, so I thought instead about Susanna Lancaster’s deep and abiding love; a love that was as strong and fresh as the night they had met. I felt pleased to have gained her trust; hoped that one day I would gain her affection. And Lizzie’s, too, because Lizzie – Bessie – was a part of the Deer’s Leap story, and a long-ago love that would never end.
As the floaty feeling that comes before sleep took me, I whispered, ‘Be there for us soon, Sergeant Jack Hunter. Please?’
Susan put down the bright red phone that matched the bright red Aga, then asked, smiling, ‘Had a good walk?’
‘Great, thanks. I took loads of pictures, for research.’
‘You’ll have to come back – take more – in summer and autumn and winter, too. There’s a special kind of beauty about the fells, when winter is on them.’
‘Any excuse at all,’ I laughed. ‘Just try keeping me away! By the way, I took one of Fellfoot; just to finish the roll off,’ I added hastily. ‘It probably won’t be much good.’
I told lies, too, because I had wished like mad that when the negative was developed I would see a World War Two pilot standing there – waiting for Suzie.
‘Can I think out loud, whilst we drink our coffee? Or do you want a break from words?’
‘Of course you can, Cassandra. Words are my stock in trade.’
‘Then when you said that Fellfoot was even older than this house, it suddenly struck me that in Margaret Dacre’s time, the people who lived there would have been her nearest neighbours. What would you think if I used Fellfoot, too, in the first of the novels? I’m not so far ahead with it that I can’t introduce another house, another set of characters.’
‘Mm. But don’t overload a novel with people, Cassandra – especially when there are three more books to follow, and you might have to take some of the characters into the next book. But go on,’ she nodded.
‘Do you suppose that Margaret Dacre really was a witch? You know more about local folklore than I ever will. Mind, she’ll be a witch in book one, no doubt about it, though I have called her Mary Dobbie.’
‘M. D. – 1592. The times I have seen that inscription. But yes, Cassandra. I think she was. When we were young, Lizzie was sure of it, and that my mother was a witch, too – sort of possessed by Margaret Dacre.’
‘And what did you think, all those years ago?’
‘I agreed with Lizzie in the end. It was why I went to Aunt Lottie’s house. I was afraid for the baby. My mother had already ill-wished Jack, don’t forget.’
‘And you could think that about your own mother?’
‘There was a lot of Margaret Dacre in her. It would strengthen the storyline of book one if you stressed the witchcraft angle, Cassandra. But you’ve read Dragonfly Morning. It’s almost all fact, disguised as a work of fiction. Dragonfly just had to be written; for Jack, for Kate and for me, to set the record straight. I don’t think, even yet, that I have forgiven my mother for the way she was. But we were talking about your book …’
‘No. It’s OK. I think I’ve got it straight now. And I’ll be careful about cluttering it up – thanks for the advice.’
‘You’re welcome, as they say! Now tell me – how do you fancy afternoon tea at the vicarage? At Lizzie’s actually. She rang this morning and I accepted. All right?’
‘Fine.’ I had liked Bessie Drake in Dragonfly Morning, so it was easy to like Lizzie. And besides, there were things I wanted to ask her about witchcraft, locally – if being the wife of a parson hadn’t changed her beliefs in such matters. ‘And there’s something else. I think it might be a good idea if you were to keep the photo that Bessie – ooops! Lizzie – took at Fellfoot; the one she kept all those years for you. You could show it to Jack – something he would recognize.’
‘A sort of passport, you mean? I’ll take one of Aunt Lottie, as well. He would recognize her, too.’
‘A passport to 1944 and Suzie,’ I said gravely. ‘Oh, I do want him to be there. I’ve been sending out vibes like mad. Surely he’s got them.’
‘And I’ve been doing much the same, Cassandra. I’m not very au fait with vibes, but if longing and love counts for anything I think that between us we shall see him!’
It was such a lovely afternoon that we decided to walk to Acton Carey, though we passed not a soul on the way, and no one stood at the roadside, thumbing a lift.
Lizzie was waiting for us, wearing her Sunday best; had baked scones, she said, to eat with cream and jam and wasn’t the weather just lovely?
The vicarage had been converted into four retirement apartments; Lizzie had one on the ground floor, with old-fashioned French windows opening onto what had once, she said, been a croquet lawn.
Easy chairs were arranged with a view of the garden; Lizzie took the one nearest the open window so she could blow her cigarette smoke out, I supposed. A small table was ready laid so that when we had done enough talking, it would be only a matter of lighting the gas under the kettle.
‘So – what’s news? What have the pair of you been doing at Deer’s Leap?’
‘I’ve been wallowing in it,’ I smiled. ‘It’s so good to be back. I’ve taken photographs and a lot of notes. Grist to the mill.’
‘When do you go back, Cassandra?’
‘Sunday, unfortunately.’
‘I’ve told Cassandra, though, that she must feel free to pop in any time she wants,’ Susan said. ‘She is setting four books around Deer’s Leap, you know, though she will have to give it a different name.’
Lizzie asked me what the new name was, and I told her Wolfen House.
‘Aaaah.’ She tapped her nose, nodding knowingly. ‘That’s what it was called when Walter and Margaret Dacre built it all those years back. One of the fields is called Wolfen Meadow to this day – but you’d know that.’
‘I too,’ I grinned, ‘have read Dragonfly Morning!’
‘So how will Margaret Dacre figure in your plot, Cassandra?’
‘She’ll be Mary Dobbie, wife of William. And could you tell me, Mrs Taylor, if Margaret Dacre really was a witch? To the best of your belief, is it fact or fairy story?’
‘We-e-ll, put it this way. It’s fact when it’s talked about by Acton Carey folk, but it’s fiction when nosy parkers come asking questions, if you see what I mean.’
‘I – I’m sorry. I’m not being nosy – just wanted some research for the book. I wouldn’t want to upset anyone in the village.’
‘I’m not talking about you, girl! You’re well on the way to being accepted, hereabouts. It’s the press I’m on about; those who go ferreting around, trying to get a story that’ll sell newspapers. Was the same when talk got around about the ghost.’
‘Which ghost?’ I looked at Susan whose eyes were on her hands. ‘Does it haunt in Acton Carey?’ I laughed, trying to make light of it.
‘It is an airman – or so some say. But when you challenge them to say more, they shut up, because they’re afraid folk will think them a bit daft. The ghost business seems to catch people’s interest from time to time, but we won’t have anything to do with it here. Who wants this village turned into a circus, will you tell me? Rumours are quickly put a stop to by mutual consent so the matter dies a natural death – for a time.’
‘And have you seen the airman, Mrs Taylor?’
‘Of course I haven’t! And there’s none around here will look you in the face and say they’ve seen him either – for fear of being thought a penny short of a shilling!’
‘You never said anything about it to me, Lizzie.’ Susan seemed to have got over her initial shock.
‘I’d have got round to it.’ Lizzie dipped into her pocket and brought out a cigarette packet. ‘What you can’t seem to grasp, Susan, is that we have over half a century of gossip to catch up on! She went off without a word,’ she glared at Susan. ‘Just like it was in the book!’
‘Did you enjoy Dragonfly Morning?’ I asked guardedly, not wanting to talk about the ghost.
‘Oh my word, yes! I’ve started to read it again, digest it properly this time. And not once did I suspect that Susan was pregnant. But there were a lot of things she never told me,’ she said huffily.
‘The book says it all. I wanted to tell you, Lizzie; I always felt bad about the way we left Deer’s Leap.’
‘That dratted mother of yours was at the bottom of it! I always said she was a witch, now didn’t I?’
‘Which brings us back to Margaret Dacre again. Can you tell me any more about her, Mrs Taylor?’
‘Questions! Questions! You’re forever at it! First it was the girl who lived at Deer’s Leap during the war; now it’s Margaret Dacre. Very peculiar how she got away with it, to my way of thinking. All the others were hanged! That’s what you should concentrate on, young lady. Margaret Dacre would be a fine character to write about, even if she was as wicked as sin!’
‘She’s already in my book, Mrs Taylor. Mary Dobbie. I told you.’
‘Then you do your own ferreting, young Cassandra. I’m off to put the kettle on. And for heaven’s sake, call me Lizzie, why don’t you?’
‘I didn’t know people round here knew about Jack,’ Susan whispered anxiously.
‘Not about Jack particularly. Just about an airman. Jean McFadden’s sister admitted to seeing him. She was in her car, so she put her foot down, she told me. Her husband said it was all nonsense, though. There are people who can see ghosts and people who never will. Like Mrs Taylor said, if talk about the ghost starts up again, it’s quickly put a stop to.’
‘I wish she’d told me sooner, for all that. But there are a lot of things we’ve got to catch up on. Why she married a clergyman, for one thing. It just doesn’t seem like her, because she’s still the same old Lizzie underneath. She hasn’t changed.’
‘Who hasn’t changed?’ She was standing in the doorway. ‘And what isn’t like me?’
‘Well, if you must know, I remarked to Cassandra that I can never understand why you married a clergyman, if you want the truth. Sorry, love, but you did ask!’
‘Then I’ll tell you!’ She set the teatray down, then stood, hands on hips, looking at both of us in turn. ‘It’s simple. He was the first one that asked me, if you must know!’
‘But, Lizzie! You were so full of life, and fun. You loved dancing. Remember how you and Mick used to –’
‘Yes, I remember Mick – and the pilot of one of the American planes that came here, too, when our lot left. That’s something else I haven’t got around to mentioning, Susan Smith!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘We truly weren’t being catty. As a matter of fact, I agree with Susan. Bessie Drake wasn’t the sort to marry a curate. She was a bundle of fun, in the book.’
‘Oh? Well, all I can say is that it happened to me, too. I fell heavily for a pilot, Susan. Stewart, his name was. Flew a Liberator. So I understand about you and Jack. Only I didn’t have his child, though I’d have considered myself lucky if I had – and be damned to the village!’
‘What happened, old love?’ Susan’s eyes were wide with sympathy.
‘Same as happened to you. He went off on a mission. Americans always bombed in the daylight. Flew in a square formation, with fighter escorts. Stew didn’t come back. I married on the rebound, I suppose, though Frank Taylor was a good, kind husband. And for goodness’ sake, let’s make a start or this tea is going to be stewed black! Give me a hand, Cassandra. And I’ll tell you no more about the American until I’m good and ready, Susan, so don’t ask!’
‘I won’t,’ came the gentle reply. ‘Not until you are ready, I promise.’
It was six o’clock, and a beautiful April evening. We had stayed too long at Lizzie’s, eaten far too many cream-dolloped scones. We walked slowly, because we felt relaxed, and happy.
‘This is where I last saw Jack.’ Susan stopped where the left fork turned out of the village. ‘We’d met, at Fellfoot, after his final – what should have been his final – op. The crew were going to celebrate that night, and it was only right he should be with them. So we agreed that next morning – at ten – he would come to Deer’s Leap and we’d tell my parents I was pregnant and that we wanted to be married.’
‘Exactly as it happened in the book?’ I whispered.
‘Exactly. I was utterly happy. Jack had made it! Within a week we could be married. I watched him go and he turned, and waved. I shouldn’t have watched him – bad luck – and he shouldn’t have waved, but it didn’t seem to matter any more. He was safe from flying for a year, we thought.
‘Then he disappeared round that bend and I stood for a while, just loving him and being happy; not caring that in the morning we’d have to face my mother. But he never made it. Next morning at ten he was preparing for takeoff; an urgent, daylight raid. Every bomber on the station went.’
‘So this is a very special place,’ I said gently.
‘Yes. I think of it as the goodbye place.’
‘But you never said goodbye.’ I took her hand. ‘It’s still to come. Let’s go home.’
I saw him, I think, before she did. For almost a week I had been willing him to come, but even so it was a shock.
‘Susan!’ I hissed. ‘Can you …?’
There was no need to ask if she had seen him. She stopped, wide-eyed, staring at the figure at the roadside, fifty yards ahead. Her face was deathly pale and she gripped my hand tightly.
‘It’s all right, Susan. Leave it to me. Just walk slowly; I don’t think he’s seen us yet. Ready?’
One minute he was there, clear and solid, an airman with three stripes on his arm; yet with the first step we took towards him, he vanished.
‘No!’ I jerked.
‘Was – was it …?’ She was still holding fast to my hand, still staring at the road ahead.
‘That was Jack.’ My voice was croaky, too. ‘We missed him by seconds.’
‘Or fifty-five years.’ Her voice still shook, though the colour was returning to her face.
‘Are you all right, Susan?’
‘Just about …’
‘A shock, for all that you were expecting – wanting – to see him,’ I soothed, still a bit wobbly myself.
‘Y-yes. Let’s get on home, Cassandra? I need a cup of tea.’
‘Brandy,’ I corrected, ‘and I’m glad it was only a brief encounter, sort of. Next time, you’ll be prepared.’
We walked slowly to the crossroads, still clasping hands. When we got to the white gate, I saw she was weeping; big, silent tears. I gave her a couple of tissues, and she dabbed her eyes and drew in her breath.
‘A bit better, now?’
‘No,’ she sniffed loudly. ‘I’m still shaking. But oh, wasn’t it unbelievable and wonderful? He’s here, Cassandra, and I can see him!’
‘I thought you’d be able to – when the time came.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘First I put the kettle on, pour that brandy, then we’ll have a cup of tea.’
I unlocked the door, then guided her to a chair at the kitchen table. She looked as if she was in control again, but for a couple of minutes she’d had me worried.
She smiled briefly. Her hands were relaxed on the tabletop and she was making a visible effort to breathe deeply, slowly.
‘A bit of a shock, for all that.’ She took a sip from the glass, then another.
‘It’ll be OK next time, Susan. You’ll be fine.’
We didn’t talk, after that, until we had emptied the teapot.
‘I’ve never forgotten him for one minute.’ Susan was the first to speak. ‘The slimness of him and the height of him; the way he held his head. He was so straight-backed, you know; so completely wonderful. And he hasn’t changed – even from a distance I knew at once he hadn’t.’
‘Good,’ I whispered.
‘No, it isn’t. I’m Susanna Lancaster. I’m seventy-four and it’s Suzie he’s looking for – hadn’t you thought?’
I had thought. A lot.
‘He’s been waiting for you, looking for you, for a long, long time. He’ll see what he wants to see. He’ll see Suzie.’
‘You think so?’ She ran her tongue round her lips. ‘You really, truly think so?’
I didn’t know, and that was the God’s-honest truth, so because I was Cassie Johns, and stupid with it at times, I said, ‘Now see here – who’s in charge of this ghost business? And I think another brandy is in order.’
‘Just a very small one – and only if you will have one with me.’
I trickled a small one into her glass, relieved I had avoided answering her question, then poured a goodly slurp for myself.
‘To Sergeant Jack Hunter,’ she whispered, raising her glass.
‘And to lovers’ meetings.’ We touched glasses.
‘And will it be journey’s end then for Jack?’ she asked tremulously.
‘We’ll see,’ I said softly. ‘We’ll see …’