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Authors: Rebecca Tope
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irritation with the overstuffed interior of the house. Sitting in the kitchen, she sipped coffee and wondered where she might spend the afternoon.
Yvonne’s cats were slowly coming to accept her presence, slinking sinuously across the floor to crouch under the table, side by side. Hepzibah ignored them, having found a chair to her liking in the living room. It was positioned beneath the window, where sunshine fell for most of the afternoon. Thea had removed a hand-embroidered cushion from the seat and permitted the dog to curl up on the upholstery, promising to herself that she would give it a thorough brushing on her final day.
As on the previous day, traffic flow past the house was sporadic as people headed for Snowshill Manor. Where did they all come from, she wondered? How far afield would people travel to see a motley accumulation of Japanese armoury, old clocks, Victorian toys, boxes, machines and a thousand other things? You looked,but couldn’t touch. As far as she could understand it, there was no narrative, little chronology and a strong sense of pointless eccentricity. Yes, she would have to go and see it for herself, but the real interest lay in what had been hidden away in the secret attic room, which the National Trust had very sensibly banished to more esoteric realms where such objects were better understood. Nobody could accuse the National Trust of having any truck with witchcraft, with their wholesome teas and carefully labelled gardens.
Somehow she had entangled the sinister-sounding Charles Paget Wade with the delinquent lad, Stevie. There was a hint of malevolence surrounding them both – Wade with his sudden startling leaps from hidden passages, Stevie with his sticks and stones designed to damage. Wade had spent his younger years in the West Indies, amongst practitioners of voodoo and wild tales of zombies and black magic. Stevie had presumably spent his entire life being spoilt and indulged by his mother in a remote English village. Even the neighbours who regarded him as a menace appeared to accept him as a necessary element in their lives. Yvonne had given no advance warning of his predations. Perhaps he had just been having a bad day, and should be given a chance to redeem himself – especially after Clara’s disclosures, minimal though they had been.
There was a limited range of choices as to how to pass the afternoon. She could drive to a local beautyspot and walk the dog again. She could wander back down the track past Gudrun’s house and follow the official footpath leading to Dulverton Wood. Or, she remembered, she could go to Broad Campden and check out Drew’s incipient burial ground. He had put the whole enterprise on hold when his wife fell ill, but the local council had already given outline permission for him to establish a modestly sized woodland cemetery, and he had effortlessly gained ownership of a house in the middle of the village. Funny he hadn’t asked her to go and look at that as well, she thought. As far as she knew it was standing empty, with no firm plans for its future.
Outside, the sky was clouding over, some thickening grey areas hinting at rain. That would be very bad news, confining her to the house and all its oppressive contents.
‘Come on, then,’ she called the dog. ‘We’ll just go for a little drive, shall we? I need to get milk and fruit, anyway.’
Her car was parked just beyond the front hedge, there being no allotted space for vehicles within the official curtilage of the house. Hyacinth House did not possess so much as a garden shed. The lawnmower and a few tools lived under a flimsy overhanging device at the back of the house, supported by two wooden posts, without walls or doors.
As she reached the small gate which opened onto the road, she unlocked the car from a yard or so distantwith the button on her keyring. The driver’s side was closest to the wall, so she went to the passenger door to admit the dog, who had been sniffing at
Yvonne’s cats were slowly coming to accept her presence, slinking sinuously across the floor to crouch under the table, side by side. Hepzibah ignored them, having found a chair to her liking in the living room. It was positioned beneath the window, where sunshine fell for most of the afternoon. Thea had removed a hand-embroidered cushion from the seat and permitted the dog to curl up on the upholstery, promising to herself that she would give it a thorough brushing on her final day.
As on the previous day, traffic flow past the house was sporadic as people headed for Snowshill Manor. Where did they all come from, she wondered? How far afield would people travel to see a motley accumulation of Japanese armoury, old clocks, Victorian toys, boxes, machines and a thousand other things? You looked,but couldn’t touch. As far as she could understand it, there was no narrative, little chronology and a strong sense of pointless eccentricity. Yes, she would have to go and see it for herself, but the real interest lay in what had been hidden away in the secret attic room, which the National Trust had very sensibly banished to more esoteric realms where such objects were better understood. Nobody could accuse the National Trust of having any truck with witchcraft, with their wholesome teas and carefully labelled gardens.
Somehow she had entangled the sinister-sounding Charles Paget Wade with the delinquent lad, Stevie. There was a hint of malevolence surrounding them both – Wade with his sudden startling leaps from hidden passages, Stevie with his sticks and stones designed to damage. Wade had spent his younger years in the West Indies, amongst practitioners of voodoo and wild tales of zombies and black magic. Stevie had presumably spent his entire life being spoilt and indulged by his mother in a remote English village. Even the neighbours who regarded him as a menace appeared to accept him as a necessary element in their lives. Yvonne had given no advance warning of his predations. Perhaps he had just been having a bad day, and should be given a chance to redeem himself – especially after Clara’s disclosures, minimal though they had been.
There was a limited range of choices as to how to pass the afternoon. She could drive to a local beautyspot and walk the dog again. She could wander back down the track past Gudrun’s house and follow the official footpath leading to Dulverton Wood. Or, she remembered, she could go to Broad Campden and check out Drew’s incipient burial ground. He had put the whole enterprise on hold when his wife fell ill, but the local council had already given outline permission for him to establish a modestly sized woodland cemetery, and he had effortlessly gained ownership of a house in the middle of the village. Funny he hadn’t asked her to go and look at that as well, she thought. As far as she knew it was standing empty, with no firm plans for its future.
Outside, the sky was clouding over, some thickening grey areas hinting at rain. That would be very bad news, confining her to the house and all its oppressive contents.
‘Come on, then,’ she called the dog. ‘We’ll just go for a little drive, shall we? I need to get milk and fruit, anyway.’
Her car was parked just beyond the front hedge, there being no allotted space for vehicles within the official curtilage of the house. Hyacinth House did not possess so much as a garden shed. The lawnmower and a few tools lived under a flimsy overhanging device at the back of the house, supported by two wooden posts, without walls or doors.
As she reached the small gate which opened onto the road, she unlocked the car from a yard or so distantwith the button on her keyring. The driver’s side was closest to the wall, so she went to the passenger door to admit the dog, who had been sniffing at
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