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Contents
PART ONE: At the fading of day
A fine late afternoon in January and…
PART TWO: Before nightfall
Another January
1.House
2.Fairyland
3.Lights out, fires dying
4.A soul on eBay
5.Its own darkness
February
6.Something touched me
7.Feral
8.Shock of the cold
March
9.Until morning
10.Hunter-Gatherer
11.The significance of holes
12.All the reasons to be afraid
13.Holy Trinity
14.Watershed
15.Burned
16.Toast
PART THREE: Getting dark
Late September
17.Woohoo Hall
18.Still there
19.Little sister
20.Closed lips
21.Flawed people
22.Guantanamo
23.The bed
24.Two camps
25.Spent energy
26.Big word
27.Responsibility
28.Exorcizing Trinity
PART FOUR: Night…
Late October
29.Resentment
30.Skid beach
31.It lives here
Friday
32.Fouler seed
33.Domestic chores
34.A form of containment
35.Women and ghosts
36.Walk but they can’t sue
37.The eighth person
38.Fragrant
39.Death canal
PART FIVE: … after…
40.Iscariot
41.Electric pig
42.Losers
43.The rusty fender
44.KP
45.Dirty linen
46.Guilty
47.Shrine
48.Dirty lantern
49.Hurt
50.Surfeit of detail
51.Not to be understood
PART SIX: … night
52.Betrayed?
53.No wall
54.Fruitcake thing
55.Old and twisty lane
56.The haunted
57.Close to the land
58.Say goodbye
59.Last fruitcake
60.Script over it
61.Pure, bright water
62.The runes don’t work
63.Borrowing a ghost
64.Bits of you
65.White sadness
66.Landmark
67.Pig roast
68.Presenter
PART SEVEN: What you remember from the night
69.Victims reunited
70.Parameters
71.In the old and proper sense
NOTES AND CREDITS
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PART ONE
At the fading of day
It is important to be aware that every ghost story… depends on the honesty of those telling it, the accuracy of their memory and the reliability of their interpretation of the circumstances.
Ian Wilson
In Search of Ghosts (1995)
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A fine late afternoon in
January and…
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…A HAUNTED HOUSE?
He wonders what this means, as he moves from dark room to even darker room, in the dust of discarded centuries. What is a haunted house?
Not an easy question. A case, there is, for saying that all houses are haunted and that this is rarely harmful. Everyone’s home holds the residue of sickness, physical and mental. Every house stores memories of pain and pleasure. Few walls have not absorbed howls of anger, purrs of passion – and not all of it normal.
But sickness is rarely infectious after five hundred years or more. Not all memories are active.
And how many of us are normal? He plucks a strand of cobweb from his tweed skirt.
Certainly not him.
The closing hour of a lovely day for the time of year. Outside, the walls of the house are still sun-baked. This is the beauty of Cotswold stone, it seems to store the sun, so that villages look from a distance like uncovered beehives.
A lovely day, a lovely old house – from the outside, at least – and a lovely woman.
She stands beside him on the steps. She’s wearing a heavy cloak of dark blue wool, ankle-length. The kind of cloak that women must have worn here when the house was young and held fewer memories, active or otherwise. From a distance, in certain lights, you might think she herself was a ghost.
‘Knap Hall was derelict for decades at a time,’ she says. ‘Eventually – and we’re talking in the 1970s, I think – it was divided up into rented apartments before it became a pub again. With a restaurant, this time. A gastropub – in the newer part, not here. Too costly to convert the older rooms, too many restrictions. So the rooms at this end, which are sixteenth century or earlier, have been mainly left alone. Which is good. For us, anyway.’
‘How did they get the people out?’ he wonders.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Presumably some of the flats were still tenanted when it was sold for a gastropub.’
She shakes her head, doesn’t know. Perhaps they didn’t have to try too hard, he thinks. Perhaps people couldn’t wait to get out.
‘And what happened with the pub?’
Trinity shrugs.
‘Lot of pubs just close overnight these days, don’t they? And it was a bit isolated. And the smoking ban, of course.’ She smiles her helpless smile. ‘Actually, I don’t really know.’
He nods. He’s more interested in her mention a few minutes ago, of the house once being a home for maladjusted boys. A lot of anger there, you imagine, and torrenting sexuality.
‘It needs to be cared for,’ she says. ‘Don’t you think?’
He stares out across gardens that became fields again and are now being retamed.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m quite sure there are a number of things here that need some care.’
He turns, looks beyond the house, to what rises above it, crowned by a stand of Scots pine.
‘What’s that hill called? Is that the Knap?’
A wooden kissing gate lets them into a footway, partly stepped, leading steeply up behind the house, overlooking a walled garden, its bottom wall tight to the hill. In one corner, there’s a small stone building with a cross at the apex of its roof.
‘Domestic chapel?’
‘Used to be. The pub used it as a storeroom. Harry’s bought some old pews from one of those reclamation places and we’re having them installed. Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘And perhaps you should have it blessed. A local priest will probably do it. Perhaps you could find out when it was consecrated. Not as old as the house, I would imagine, from the stonework.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
He smiles.
‘Not exactly my tradition, lovely.’
When they’re approaching the summit of the hill, he turns to take in the vast view, the setting sun spreading a deep watercolour wash over pastel fields and smoky woodland.
‘What’s that village over to the left?’
‘That’s Winchcombe,’ she says. ‘I never know whether it’s a village or a town.’
‘Ah, yes, so it is.’ He knows it well enough, drove close to its perimeter to get here today. ‘A large village these days with the heart of a town.’
A town in the old sense, a sturdy, working town, untypical of the modern Cotswolds. It has a strange history of growing tobacco.
‘All very old round here,’ she says. ‘And nothing barbarically new to spoil it. Not for miles and miles.’
‘Only the barbarically old. If barbaric is the word.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Belas Knap. If this little hill isn’t known as the Knap, it probably suggests the name of the house links with the Neolithic longbarrow.’
‘I suppose. It’s somewhere over there.’ She points vaguely at a wood behind the hill. ‘Only been once. A longer walk than I imagined. It’s just like an odd little hill. As if it’s erupted from the corner of the field. Or it’s landed from somewhere. Doesn’t look five thousand years old with all that new stonework.’
‘Probably a matter of health and safety.’
‘There used to be dead people in there. I think they took away dozens of skeletons. I’m quite glad you can’t see it from here.’
‘I should take a look.’
‘You wouldn’t get there before dark. It’s quite steep and treacherous. The ground.’
Fingers moving inside her cloak, holding it closed at the front.
‘Perhaps not, then,’ he says. ‘Perhaps when I return.’
‘I hope you’re going to.’
‘You know me, lovely. Be with you, I will, at the merest beckoning of a finger. Now we’re in touch again. Now I know where you are.’
She smiles. A hand emerges from the cloak and she squeezes his arm affectionately as he raises it to point to something two or three miles away which lies like a chunky copper bangle in an open jewel case of green baize.
‘Sudeley Castle?’
‘Yessss.’ Her hair’s thrown back, and he sees her face is shiny with… pride? For someone else’s luxuriously appointed castle? ‘You know it, Cindy?’
‘I know a little of its history.’ He’s done some reading. ‘And its ghosts, of course.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Is there more than one?’
Back inside the house, she shows him a leaflet for Sudeley, displaying an aerial view of the castle with its velvety gardens. Walk in the footsteps of Kings and Queens, it says on the front.
There’s a cut-out figure over the castle: a tall, slender woman, from a painting, her waist forming the point of a V, in a sumptuous red dress. She has delicate, composed features and her multi-ringed fingers are spread over her abdomen. Red stones in the rings, the necklace and the choker.
He rather likes her. She has, for the period, an unusually kind, intelligent face. The sixth wife of Henry VIII, herself four times married. One of the survivors.
Trinity, of course, played her in the British feature film The King’s Evening. Not a very good film, he recalls, and Katherine Parr does not appear until the last quarter; there’s much more about the flighty Catherine Howard – wife five, beheaded for adultery. Adultery is always more cinematic. As is beheading, of course.
‘You felt close to Katherine Parr?’
‘More than any woman I ever played.’
‘And that’s why you wanted to live here?’
‘She’s the only Queen of England to be buried at a private house, rather than some cathedral. Did you know that?’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Through the old, sour-milk panes of a mullioned window, he watches a hill beyond Sudeley Castle catching fire in the last rays of the sun. ‘Didn’t survive Henry for long, mind, poor dab.’
Falling rapidly into the arms of Thomas Seymour, brother of Jane, wife three, and...
