The Dream Weavers. Barbara Erskine

She had dealt with worse, much worse, before.

      Bea loved her husband unreservedly, had done ever since the first time she had laid eyes on him when they were both going to the same sixth form college. Standing in their kitchen, chopping vegetables in his Snoopy T-shirt, a present from their daughter Petra, it was easy to forget that he now gloried in the title of Canon Treasurer at one of England’s great cathedrals. Without the dog collar, he was himself.

      They had first met going backwards and forwards to college. He was the best-looking boy she had ever seen. Tall, dark hair, scruffy, but not overly so, and with the most charming smile, he had made a beeline for her on the bus on the first day of term and sat down beside her. She only realised how much of a catch he was when she saw the other girls scowling. Their friendship became close and they started to go out together at weekends and sometimes in the evenings to local dances or the pub. No one else had ever had a look in. They confided in each other and told each other their hopes and dreams – and her dreams of the future included Mark. There was only one thing she had kept from him. Her secret life.

      When she was a child, it had been her grandmother who listened to her half-excited, half-frightened stories of another world, and told her they were normal. Her grandmother understood, saw as she did, and warned her that not everyone saw these things and that people would tell her that it was all her imagination. In an over-rational, hypercritical world it was easier to keep quiet about her gift than talk about it. Her Nan had also warned her that some people would be afraid of her.

      Bea and Mark went on to university together, she to read English, he to do business studies with a view to joining his father’s firm in the City. In her secret heart of hearts, she’d imagined that one day they would marry. For two years, life continued according to her plan, but then came his sudden announcement and her world fell apart.

      He was going to give up his business course and become a priest. They would still be there at uni together, he assured her, still travel up and down on the same train at the beginning and end of term. But, perhaps inevitably, she realised almost at once that he was becoming a stranger. When her parents moved to London, she went with them. His original plan to join her there was abandoned. After graduation he took a curacy far away in the North of England. They lost touch. She applied for a post as an English teacher close enough to her parents to stay with them until she found her feet.

      She had lost Mark, but she had not lost her interests. She began to attend workshops and seminars, meeting people with the same abilities as herself. She studied healing and spiritual development. She studied ghosts. That was when she realised she had found her true calling.

      Boyfriends came and went. No one serious. No one who could ever take Mark’s place. And then, out of the blue, they met again quite by accident and that had been that. She’d put aside her reservations, swept into the giddy passion that carried them into marriage and through his first two parishes, where she had proved herself remarkably good at being a vicar’s wife with two children and a respectable job in a local school.

      But her gift never left her, nor did her wish to help the people who needed her services as a healer and a medium. That was a part of her, and she’d told Mark about it before they married. At first he was shocked and incredulous. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that this is all in your head? That you’re imagining it?’

      And she had said, yes, of course it had occurred to her, and perhaps he was right, that was all it was. ‘But it is very real to me, Mark. And it works.’ They left it at that.

      She knew he was uncomfortable with it, but he had reluctantly accepted his wife’s strange gifts in the end, what else could he do? She had helped him by keeping that side of her life to herself as far as possible. People came to her through quiet recommendations and mostly she worked alone. She was discreet. She never charged. Her grandmother’s advice, to keep schtum, stayed with her; it was the unspoken rule she and Mark both lived by. Most of the time.

      Everything changed after it was suggested that his career, his popularity in his parishes, his calm competence and his background in business, had been noticed and that the Dean and Chapter at Hereford Cathedral might view his application for the vacant position as Canon Treasurer with interest. She hadn’t been at all sure what it would mean to give up their sprawling rural parish and move into the Cathedral Close; the idea worried her, but Mark had been so certain this was God’s calling. These days, clergy partners follow their own lives, he assured her. She could still be a teacher.

      She could still be a healer of houses.

      As long as no one knew about it.

      He accepted the job.

      Their daughters, Petra and Anna, viewed the change with tolerant good humour. They were both bright, serious, and remarkably level-headed, as they used to point out, considering their father was a vicar and their mother a psychic. Neither had inherited Bea’s gifts, though secretly she saw her own skills as a healer in Petra, who had from a small child wanted to become a vet. It was from Mark that Anna inherited her love of music which led her to want to make it her career. They had settled easily into their new bedrooms, loving the creaky floorboards and the beautiful little cast iron fireplaces and the views, one to the front and one to the back of the house. Both were at university now, Petra studying to be a vet in Edinburgh, Anna in her first year at the Royal Academy of Music in London.

      The household had become suddenly very quiet.

      Bea gave up her full-time job when they moved. She became a supply teacher instead. The spasmodic routine suited her second job perfectly. As promised, she pursued it with discretion.

      Their lives settled down until that day when, a year ago, in an old house deep in the remote countryside of the Welsh Marches, she had encountered her first poltergeist and she and Mark had had their first major row.

      The drive had been long and winding, the house at the end of it ancient, hung with creepers, and almost at once Bea felt a twinge of doubt. On the phone the problem had seemed textbook. Ghostly noises. Knocking. Items being moved about in the night.

      As she parked her car and climbed out, she had realised at once that she shouldn’t have come alone. One of the rules was, if it looks in any way complicated, take someone with you; make sure there is someone there to cover your back There was something here and it was something bad. But it was too late to turn back. The front door had opened and the couple who had contacted her emerged. Mr and Mrs Hutton were elderly – perhaps late middle age – and they were clinging to one another, their fear and anxiety obvious.

      ‘Are you the ghost hunter?’ Ken Hutton had wrenched his arm out of the clutches of the woman at his side and ran down the steps. ‘Thank the lord you’re here! Go in. Quickly. It’s happening now!’

      Bea had a routine. Protect herself; surround herself with light. Stay very calm. A quick prayer. Do not show fear. Never show fear. Project unthreatening love and reassurance.

      ‘It’s started throwing things.’ Daisy Hutton had been visibly shaking. ‘I wish we’d never come to this wretched place!’

      ‘We should have known there was a reason the rent was so low,’ Ken had muttered. ‘We’re leaving, I’ll tell you that much. We’re leaving as soon as we can, and we’ll want our deposit back!’

      ‘I’m not going back in.’ Daisy was genuinely traumatised.

      ‘Nor me.’ Ken had shaken his head violently. ‘You go in. First door on your left down the hall. In the library. God help you! We’ll be in the garden when you’ve finished.’

      For a moment Bea stared after them before turning back towards the house. She had never felt more alone.

      ‘Christ be with me, Christ within me.’ She had repeated the age-old words of the breastplate of St Patrick as she headed towards the front door. The safety net, the all-encompassing, wraparound armour of the prayer, would keep her safe; surround her with light.

      The hall was shadowy, with oak floors and panelled walls. Old blistered paintings hung on the walls, and there was a worn Persian rug on the floor. The house had smelt damp, she remembered vividly,