Hiding From the Light. Barbara Erskine

he was still strong enough to go out and garden, it had been a riot of colour and exuberance in sharp contrast to the grim fifties decor which still adorned the bungalow on the inside. There was little sign of that garden now. Mike could never quite decide whether after the old man’s death in 1996 Judith had deliberately rooted out every sign of beauty and grace, or whether it was merely that she was uninterested in gardening and had not noticed the dying roses and the blighted leaves. As each plant died it was cut down and burned and the gap in the soil was rapidly covered by a thatch of chickweed and goose grass.

      Mike followed her inside, resigning himself to the statutory small glass of sweet sherry which, he suspected, she bought just for him. She did not drink herself, but would sit and watch him sip from the thimble-shaped glass with an intensity which always made him very uncomfortable.

      The table was laid for two. He found himself picturing her returning to the empty house, had he turned down her invitation, and sadly removing one place setting, and he knew that was why he had said yes, as he had said yes every month or so since he had arrived in the parish.

      ‘Judith, you’ve lived in this place all your life.’ He followed her through to the kitchen, a habit which irritated her intensely. She would have preferred him to stay neatly in the lounge until she had the meal on the table in the small dining room. ‘Have you come across much interest in the history of the witchfinder?’ He leaned on the counter. A couple of bottles of pills stood there, side by side, and he frowned. He hoped she wasn’t ill. Tactfully he transferred his gaze to the window and stared out at the back lawn. There were no flowerbeds at all now between the grass and the wooden panel fence. The only remotely decorative item left was a single white plastic-covered washing line.

      Judith had turned on the electric element under the pan of potatoes which had been waiting ready-peeled on the stove. ‘Matthew Hopkins?’ She opened the fridge and brought out some packets of cold meat. ‘I think most people know who he was.’ Reaching into the drawer for a pair of scissors she sliced the top off each packet in turn and arranged the slices of ham, salami and chicken on a serving dish. ‘Why?’ She glanced at him sharply.

      ‘I heard he is reputed to haunt various places in the town.’

      ‘Pubs.’ She turned back to the fridge for tomatoes and a lettuce in a polythene bag. ‘He haunts the pubs.’

      Mike grinned. ‘That seems strange, given that he was a puritan.’

      ‘Quite.’ She threw the lettuce into a bowl in the sink and ran cold water onto it.

      ‘Do you ever teach about him in school?’ He took another sip from his sherry and tried to stop himself from wincing as the sticky sweetness hit his tongue.

      ‘I do, actually. I organise a project with Year Fives. I send them off round the place with paper and a pencil and get them to look for a few clues. Then I give them a lesson in more detail. Tell them about the evils of witchcraft. You know the sort of thing. Were you thinking of covering it when you come up to the school?’

      ‘Good Lord, no.’ Mike shook his head. ‘No, to tell you the truth I was a bit disturbed by something I heard today.’

      ‘That man who spoke to you in church?’ Judith turned off the tap and stared at him. ‘I knew it. I could see you were worried. He didn’t look like the usual type who gets into that sort of thing, not New Agey or grungey particularly.’

      Mike frowned. ‘No, indeed.’

      ‘What did he say?’

      ‘You know I can’t tell you that, Judith.’ He smiled to soften the words. ‘But it made me think. Wonder. If there are any genuine –’ he hesitated, trying to think of a word to describe what he had been told – ‘residues of the past.’

      ‘Ghosts?’ Judith looked astonished. ‘You don’t believe in ghosts?’

      He frowned. ‘Of course I do, Judith.’ He paused. ‘And so, as a member of the church, should you. You may not be trained to deal with such matters, but you cannot deny their existence.’

      He saw a quick flare of colour in her cheeks and bit his lip. He had not meant his words to sound so like a rebuke. ‘I agree many so-called ghosts are imagination or whatever, but we cannot deny that such unhappy beings exist.’ He put down his glass. ‘Would you like me to take this through?’ Reaching for the plate of meat he gave her a moment to compose herself.

      ‘I do believe in it,’ she said softly. ‘And in witchcraft. I just didn’t know if you did.’

      He swung round. ‘I couldn’t be a priest of the church unless I believed in such things, Judith.’

      ‘Right.’ She tore the lettuce in half. ‘Well, that’s why I teach them about the Witchfinder General. His methods might have been cruel, but the women he persecuted deserved it. They were evil. I teach all about it to deter the little thugs who are toying with the idea of becoming witches today.’

      Mike was standing by the door, plate in hand. He studied her face thoughtfully, trying to hide the shock he had felt at her words. ‘Are you saying that there are still witches round here?’

      She nodded. ‘You’d be surprised how many people there are round here who actually claim to be the descendants of witches. They are proud of it! Oh yes, Mike. There are witches. And ghosts. And ghosts of witches.’ She threw the wilting leaves into a wire basket and shook it violently, spattering water around the room. ‘I am only amazed it’s taken this long for them to start crawling out of the slime and heading your way.’

       12

       Monday

      ‘Turn right at the signpost. There!’ Emma pointed through the windscreen ahead of them. She took a deep breath. ‘Supposing I hate it this time when I see it?’

      Peggy changed gear and slowed the car. She glanced across at her daughter with a smile. ‘You haven’t signed anything, Em. You can still withdraw your offer.’

      Emma leaned forward as they drove up the lane, squinting in the hot sunlight. It was almost midday and this time it had taken them nearly three hours to negotiate the traffic-clogged roads out of London. Dan had been left behind to mind the shop, the obliging neighbour, after all, unable to help.

      Emma found she was holding her breath. ‘It’s up here on the left. Just round this bend. There.’

      Peggy pulled the car off the road and both women climbed stiffly out and stood staring at the cottage. There was a long silence.

      ‘Well?’ Emma turned to Peggy at last.

      ‘It’s very sweet. I don’t know if I remember there being so many roses. That’s made it chocolate-boxy.’ Peggy took a deep breath. ‘And the air is heaven! Have you got the keys?’

      Emma reached back through the car window. The keys, which they had picked up on the way past the estate agent, were lying on the glove shelf. Will Fortingale had succumbed to his cold and apparently was spending the day in bed, but his assistant had seemed very happy to let them have them for as long as they wanted them. Grasping them tightly, Emma leaned for a moment on the roof of the car. Her heart was thumping uncomfortably.

      Glancing round Peggy saw her and frowned. She put her hand on Emma’s shoulder. ‘Are you OK, darling?’

      Emma nodded. She was biting her lip. ‘I wish Piers had come too.’

      ‘I don’t think there was a chance in hell of that happening, Em.’ Peggy sighed. ‘You’ve got to resign yourself to that. If you buy this place it could be the end of you and Piers.’ She scanned her daughter’s face. ‘You do realise that, don’t you?’

      Emma shook her head. ‘He’ll come round. He always does. He’s just cross because he didn’t think of it himself. And he wanted to consider a place in France. But what’s the point of that?