While I Was Waiting. Georgia Hill

She tried to say his name, but just couldn’t call him Roger, somehow. It didn’t seem right. She looked to where he had disappeared through a door at the back of the office. To the kitchen, she presumed.

      ‘Where are my manners? Neil leaped into action. ‘Please take a seat.’ He dragged out an office chair and gestured for her to sit down. Resuming his position at his desk, he leaned back, idly twirling a fountain pen between long fingers. ‘And, how are you getting on with Clematis Cottage? Such a beautiful location but a lot of work I imagine?’

      Rachel nodded. ‘I do love it, but you’re right, it is a lot of work.’ She’d never met such a stunning-looking man. He quite took her breath away.

      ‘You’ve got the Llewellyns working on it, I believe?’

      Rachel forced herself to concentrate. ‘Yes, although they haven’t done all that much yet. The roof is in need of serious repair and I’m having them install central heating, too.’ She pulled a face. ‘I think the wiring may need re-doing, as well.’

      Neil nodded. ‘Only to be expected, with an old house like that. But Mike Llewellyn’s a hard worker and reliable. He’ll do a good job.’ He treated Rachel to another attractive smile. ‘And some heating is an excellent idea. It can only add value to the property, should you wish to sell, that is. Yes, Mike’s a good worker. It’s just such a shame about his wife.’

      He was interrupted by Roger bringing through a tray loaded with a cafetière, cups and saucers and a plate piled high with pastries.

      ‘It really is a scandal having an office so close to Mervyn’s bakery,’ he said, as he put down his load on Neil’s desk and began to arrange cups, saucers and plates.

      Rachel smiled. ‘I was just on my way to it. I simply couldn’t resist the smell.’

      Roger tutted and raised his eyes to the ceiling in comic fashion. ‘It’s death to the diet, I’m afraid.’ He pouted. ‘On a daily basis. Not that my young friend here has to worry about these things.’

      Neil laughed and reached for the plate of cakes. ‘I’m one of those insufferable people who never puts on any weight, I’m afraid.’ He offered Rachel first choice and, after deliberating, she took the smallest.

      ‘It’s all the running he does,’ Roger’s tone was gloomy. ‘Can’t join him, not at my age and with my knees.’ He began to pour coffee. ‘Neil has run three marathons,’ he added, with pride.

      ‘Roger!’ Neil began to protest.

      ‘Nonsense, my boy, if you’ve got the energy to run twenty-six-odd miles you should make more of it. I’d have a job to walk that far!’

      Rachel took the cup of coffee Roger offered, sipped and relaxed. It was pleasant to witness the men’s banter. They were obviously great friends as well as work colleagues. Working from home as she did, she’d never had the chance to develop office friendships.

      Roger, after fussing with the crockery and making sure everyone had everything, sank down onto a chair. He took an enormous bite of croissant and closed his eyes in bliss. ‘Perfection. But the last one I’ll ever have,’ he said, still with his eyes shut.

      ‘He says that every Thursday,’ Neil said and winked at Rachel. ‘Thursday is a croissant day. On Mondays he has a doughnut, Tuesdays a Danish, Wednesday’s a Belgian bun day and on Friday Roger treats himself to a fresh fruit tart. You must try one of those, they are really delicious.’

      She laughed and, at the sound, Roger opened his eyes. ‘It’s the tiny pleasures in life that makes it more bearable, I’ve often found.’ He sat up. ‘Now Rachel, tell me how you are getting on with old Mrs Lewis’s cottage.’

      Rachel hesitated. She thought of the Huntley and Palmer’s biscuit tin still containing the secrets of Hetty’s life. That the memoir had been so candid had surprised and shocked her. She had expected something duller; a dry account of an Edwardian miss, perhaps.

      After the initial excitement, she’d avoided reading any of it recently, having become uneasy at delving so deeply into the woman’s life. When she was on her own in the evenings and it was quiet, it was all too easy to imagine the tangible presence of Henrietta Trenchard-Lewis in her home. Sometimes there was an echo of the woman so strong that Rachel could almost conjure up her image. She thought of Friday night when she’d suddenly become very aware of the dense blackness of the country night beyond her sitting-room window and how she’d jumped when a plump moth had beaten against the glass. Although she didn’t feel scared exactly, she still didn’t know how she felt about sharing her new home with what might possibly be Hetty’s ghost. She shuddered slightly. ‘Mr Foster, I mean Roger, she didn’t die there, did she?’

      ‘Oh no, my dear. She became very frail at the end. She was extremely old, you know, when she died. She had to be taken into a care home, when it became obvious she wasn’t coping on her own any more. That’s why the cottage was sold, to pay the fees. It’s why it got into a bit of a state too.’ He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. ‘Poor woman, after all those years on the planet and she died all alone. No relatives at all, as far as we know. Now, why should you ask about where the dear lady died?’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘Not worried about the place being haunted, are you?’

      ‘No,’ Rachel answered, taken aback at his casual assumption. She repeated it a little more firmly. ‘No. I don’t feel it’s haunted exactly, but there’s a very strong…’ she stopped, too embarrassed to continue.

      ‘Well, she was a very characterful woman, in many senses of the word. So I believe, I never had the pleasure of meeting her, to my regret. Those who did say she grasped any opportunity that came her way, even when she was very old. Such a vibrant woman, by all accounts. So eager to taste all that life offered. Such a positive attitude. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a little something of her lingered, shall we say? An essence, perhaps?’

      ‘You don't think I’m completely mad, then?’

      Roger patted her hand in avuncular fashion and then rose to pour more coffee. ‘Not at all, dear girl. And I’m sure, if it is her, she means you no harm. I don’t think she was like that in life, so there’s no reason to assume she would be vindictive in death.’ He turned to Neil. ‘We’ve heard of much stranger things happening in houses, haven’t we?’

      ‘Indeed we have.’ Neil smiled at Rachel. ‘I hear you found something in the house? Some papers or letters? No wonder you have the lady on your mind.’ He held out his cup for a refill.

      Rachel looked at the two men. They were being so kind, so understanding.

      ‘Oh yes,’ Roger rubbed his hands together in glee and sat back down. ‘Do tell. I was so sorry I couldn’t give you more time when you rang up the other day. We had a rush on. Most unlike us.’ With this he gestured to the empty office. ‘Have you managed to read much of the contents?’

      Rachel gave a brief version of what she’d read so far. They were a good audience and hung on every word with apparent fascination. She warmed to her theme. ‘So it’s the story of her life, as far as I can tell. There are bits of her diary, letters and postcards and, most exciting of all, what looks to be an attempt at a memoir.’

      Neil leaned forward, his blue eyes aglow. ‘What a thing to find. If it was me, I wouldn’t be able to resist reading the whole thing through in one fell swoop!’

      Rachel gave him a rueful look. ‘If I had the time, I don’t suppose I’d be able to either, but there have been other things for me to do at Clematis Cottage. And I have to work too.’

      ‘Well, of course. Silly of me to suggest otherwise. But it’s a discovery and a half, isn’t it? That’s for sure. What are you going to do with it?’

      ‘Yes, my dear,’ Roger echoed. ‘What are planning on doing with it? It must have some wonderful stuff in it. Think of what she lived through. She was over a hundred when she died, you know. She lived through two world wars, the invention of the motor car and the aeroplane,