House of Echoes. Barbara Erskine

churchyard as he strode back to his bike, vaulted onto it and rode away, his pile of books heaped in the bicycle basket. Suddenly she felt very lonely.

      The grave stone by the oak tree was simple and unadorned.

      Philip Duncan Born 31st January 1920 Died 14th November 1963

      Nothing else. No mention of his grieving widow. Or his child. She looked down at it for several minutes. When at last she turned away pulling the collar of her coat up with a shiver against the strengthening wind she found there were tears in her eyes.

      It was a long time before she could drag herself away from the old house and walk, thoughtfully, back to the car. Climbing in, savouring the familiar atmosphere of home, she leaned back in her seat and looked round. On the shelf lay one of Tom’s socks, pulled off as he sat in his car seat behind her, as a prelude to sucking his toes.

      She stayed slumped for several minutes, lost in thought, then suddenly she sat upright and gripped the steering wheel.

      In her pocket she had the address of someone who knew her mother; who remembered her; who would know where she was now.

      Leaning across the seat she reached for the road atlas. Aldeburgh was not all that far away. She glanced up. The sky was a patchwork of scudding black clouds and brilliant sunshine. Evening was still a long way off.

       2

      Pulling into the long broad main street in Aldeburgh she sat still for a moment peering through the windscreen at the shops and houses. It was an attractive place, bright, neat and at the moment very quiet.

      Clutching her piece of paper she climbed out of the car and approached a man who was standing staring into the window of an antique shop. At his feet a Jack Russell terrier strained at the leash anxious to get to the beach. He glanced at her piece of paper. ‘Crag Path? Through there. Overlooking the sea.’ He smiled. ‘A friend of Edgar Gower’s are you? Delightful man. Delightful.’ Unexpectedly he gave a shout of laughter as he strode away.

      Joss found she was smiling herself as, intrigued, she followed the direction of his pointing finger and threaded her way down the side of a fisherman’s cottage, crossed a narrow road and found herself on a promenade. On one side stood a line of east-facing houses, on the other, beyond the sea wall, a shingle beach and then a grey, turbulent sea. The wind was very cold here and she shivered as she walked down the road looking for house numbers. Edgar Gower’s house was tall and narrow, white painted with a high balcony overlooking the sea. To her relief she could see lights on in the downstairs room and there was a stream of pale wood smoke coming from the chimney.

      He opened the door to her himself, a tall, angular man with a ruddy complexion and a startling halo of white hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue.

      ‘Mr Gower?’

      Under his piercing gaze Joss suddenly felt extraordinarily self conscious. He did not appear to be gentle or reassuring as his successor at Belheddon had been; this man of the cloth was a complete contrast.

      ‘Who wants me?’ The eyes did not appear to have blinked. Although his gaze was fierce his voice was comparatively soft, scarcely audible as behind her the waves, crashing successively onto the beach, rattled the shingle in a shifting deafening background roar.

      ‘I was given your address by the rector at Belheddon. I’m so sorry to come without telephoning –’

      ‘Why have you come?’ He cut short her floundering. He had made no move to ask her in and she realised suddenly that he had a coat on over a thick rough knit sweater. He had obviously been on the point of going out.

      ‘I’m sorry. This is obviously not a good time –’

      ‘Perhaps you will allow me to be the judge of that, my dear.’ He spoke with ill-concealed though mild irritation. ‘Once you have told me the purpose of your visit.’

      ‘I think you know my mother.’ She blurted it out without preamble, transfixed by the unblinking eyes.

      ‘Indeed?’

      ‘Laura Duncan.’

      For a moment he stared at her in complete silence and she saw that at last she had succeeded in disconcerting him. She held her breath, returning his gaze with difficulty.

      ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘You are little Lydia.’

      Suddenly Joss found it difficult to speak. ‘Jocelyn,’ she whispered. ‘Jocelyn Grant.’

      ‘Jocelyn Grant. I see.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You and I should walk, I think. Come.’ Stepping out onto the path he slammed his door behind him and turned right, striding purposefully along the road behind the sea wall without a backward glance to see if she were following.

      ‘How did you find out about your mother?’ He spoke loudly against the noise of the wind. His hair was streaming behind him, reminding Joss irresistibly of an Old Testament prophet in full cry.

      ‘I went to St Catherine’s House to find my birth certificate. My name is Jocelyn, not Lydia.’ She was growing short of breath, trying to keep up with him. ‘Jocelyn Mary.’

      ‘Mary was your great grandmother, Lydia your grandmother.’

      ‘Please, is my mother still alive?’ She had had to run a few steps to stay beside him.

      He stopped. His expression, beaten by the wind into fiery aggressiveness suddenly softened with compassion. Joss’s heart sank. ‘She’s dead?’ she whispered.

      ‘I’m afraid so, my dear. Several years ago. In France.’

      Joss bit her lip. ‘I had so hoped –’

      ‘It is as well there is no chance of your meeting, my dear. I doubt if your mother would have wanted it,’ he said. The kindness and sympathy in his voice were palpable; she was beginning to suspect that he must have been a very good pastor.

      ‘Why did she give me away?’ Her voice was trembling and she felt her tears on her cheeks. Embarrassed she tried to wipe them away.

      ‘Because she loved you. Because she wanted to save your life.’

      ‘Save my life?’ Shocked, Joss echoed him numbly.

      He looked down at her for a moment, then he reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. Carefully he wiped her cheeks. He smiled, but there was unhappiness in his eyes as he shook his head. ‘I prayed you would never come to find me, Jocelyn Grant.’

      He turned away from her and took several steps back along the path then he stopped and swung back to face her. ‘Are you able to forget that you ever went to Belheddon? Are you able to put it out of your mind forever?’

      Joss gasped. Confused she shook her head. ‘How can I?’

      His shoulders slumped. ‘How indeed.’ He sighed. ‘Come.’

      Abruptly he began to retrace his steps and she followed him in silence, her stomach churning uncomfortably.

      His narrow front hall, as he closed the door against the roar of wind and sea, was uncannily quiet. Shrugging off his own coat he helped her with her jacket and slung both onto a many branched Victorian hat stand then he headed for the staircase.

      The room into which he showed her was a large comfortable study overlooking the sea wall and the white-topped waves. It smelled strongly of pipe smoke and the huge vase of scented viburnum and tobacco flowers mixed with Michaelmas daisies, which stood on a table amidst piles of books. Gesturing her to a deep shabby arm chair he went back to the door and bellowed down the stairs. ‘Dot! Tea and sympathy. My study. Twenty minutes!’

      ‘Sympathy?’ Joss tried to smile.

      He