The Haunting of Pear Tree Cottage

The weeks had flown by, all gone in a blur, a red and orange autumn ending with the smoky odor of Halloween, followed by a dark and dingy November. Now it was December and Christmas rushing upon us. Mum was coming to stay for a few days over the holiday, hoping, I think, that she could accompany me to the office Christmas “do.” Her aim was to do a bit more hobnobbing with the one and only Pete Horner (up the stairs, apples and pears, trouble and strife, where’s me wife)!

She went back to Leeming not long after our little disagreement. Not because of “our words,” she had assured me, but because she ought to show her face around and about the village and to all the ducks and geese on the reservoir that she swore blind wouldn’t be getting fed if she wasn’t there. I know she’s my mum, but good God, she was a strange one. She told me she was keeping in touch with “little Jack Horner,” as she called him. God knows what their text messages were like—just one long “lol” I would think, as they seemed to break out in hyena like laughter every time I saw them together.

There’d been no sign of Morgan Bloom since that awful day when I saw that dirty unruly mob drowning her on the beach. Maybe that would be the end of it. I witnessed her death, so now she was gone, never to return. What of her brother, Seth, though, and the rest of the family? I supposed there would always be unanswered questions about the lives of people who lived hundreds of years ago. I looked for her, though, and sometimes woke suddenly in the middle of the night thinking there was somebody loitering in the bedroom, somebody standing in the darkness at the side of the bed. I fancied I could hear her breathing, soft and puffy, and wished she would show herself. But unfortunately (or fortunately, I’m not sure which) she never did.

Moses was still with me, though, purring on the bed or on the settee, or stalking the garden like a lion and bringing home trophies of dead mice and birds. I knew he thought he was doing a good thing—he was showing his love for me, right? But I really wished he would stop. Just the other morning I almost stepped on what looked like a giant mouse—it was twice the size of Moses himself—dead as a doornail on the floor by the side of the bed. I suspected it was a rat, and shrieked so hard and so loud, I thought I may have woken the dead. (It didn’t wake Morgan Bloom though, luckily!)

My boss, the enigmatic Richard Curtis, was as friendly as ever, although maybe a little more detached, as if there were a thin glass wall between us, separating us, keeping us apart. He hadn’t mentioned anything about being questioned by the police—he’d not even asked me any more details about what I actually saw. And when I tried to broach the subject, he quickly headed me off and rambled on about some work-related issue.

He very rarely instigated conversation about anything other than work now, yet I’d noticed he followed me with his grass green eyes and, when I tried to catch his gaze, looked quickly away as if he didn’t want to give away the fact that he was watching my every move. Perhaps he thought I was unstable, and was looking for the next opportunity to submit me to a local “secure hospital.”

I knew the change in his behavior was for the best. I’d had a feeling we were getting too close, and that maybe it was “on the rebound” on my part, although there was no way in this world I thought about Stuart any more. I didn’t care now that he dumped me for another woman. In fact, I was relieved and felt sorry for her. Yes, I felt sorry for the sloe-eyed Anna, as I suspected it wouldn’t be too long before boredom struck and he would replace her with another, just as he had replaced me with her. And so it goes on and on and on. I thought about what the detective inspector had said about Rick and me being “very confiding towards each other for people who had only been acquainted for a couple of weeks,” and I supposed looking back on it, he was right.

Anyway, Rick had already been here for a couple of months—four more to go, and he’d be heading back to Arizona and Mr. Wigglesworth would return to take up his post as my boss. Things should be a lot easier for me then. At least Mr. Wigglesworth didn’t have penetrating grass green eyes that I longed to gaze into, and a stubbly beard that was just begging to be touched. There would be no distractions. “Yes, everything will be a lot easier for me then,” I repeated to myself as, like a little girl, I fervently crossed my fingers behind my back, on both hands.

***

“Oh Chrissie, hoik it up a bit more. Show a bit more leg, why don’t you?”

“Mum, I don’t want to. I like this length!”

She caught hold of the end of my midi length black dress and pulled it up well above my knees. “See, you’ve got lovely legs, Chrissie, and you’re only twenty- eight. Good God, when I was your age, I wore micro miniskirts, and didn’t I cause a sensation with my long pins on display. I tell you what, Chrissie—”

“Mum, it’s okay. I’m quite happy wearing a midi length dress,” I interrupted firmly. “I don’t feel right if I’ve got everything on display.” And then thinking about what she had said, I added, “Did you really wear micro miniskirts? I never saw you wearing one when you were with Dad.”

“Oh no, I didn’t then. God no, he wouldn’t have let me. I wore them years before I met him.”

“He wouldn’t let you?” I looked at Mum in amazement.

“Oh, it’s a long time ago, Chrissie, and I don’t want to go back there at the moment.”

I nodded, understanding Mum’s need for privacy, and turned back to the mirror, making sure that, even though I didn’t want to display my legs, the dress was cut low enough to show a cheeky glimpse of my neckline. Umm, perhaps a bit too much though. Modestly, I pulled it up slightly.

“No, leave that.” Mum tugged at my arm. “Go on, advertise your wares, love. Let ’em see what they’ll be getting. I bet that boss man of yours would love to get an eyeful.”

“Mum.”

I must have had my mutinous face on, because she said, “Okay, I’ll back off. Let’s not have a bull and cow.”

“What?”

“Bull and cow—a row!” A lot of braying laughter ensued, which I couldn’t help but join in with.

“You’re crazy, Mum,” I told her.

We were getting ready for the office Christmas “do.” Well, I was trying to get ready, but Mum kept interfering. I’d been standing at the mirror for ages, making sure my dress looked all right. It didn’t help that I felt a bit like a heifer next to skinny Mum. Now I was touching up my makeup, messing about with my eyelashes, and pretending I was sucking a lemon, whilst applying shiny blusher to my cheekbones.

Mum was dolled up to the nines, wearing a short black dress that shimmered as she moved and knee-high boots teamed with her usual short furry jacket. But, because of Christmas, she had gone the whole hog and twined lengths of tinsel in silver and gold through her hair. I watched her as she sat on the edge of the settee, sipping at a glass of red wine and trying to entice Moses to play with a length of the sparkly tinsel. He played for a while, batting and patting with his paws as she waved it in the air so it undulated like a snake, but suddenly he seemed bored and moved away from her, laying himself down in front of the roaring fire.

I’d made a real effort with it being the first Christmas in my new home, and a Christmas tree stood in the corner, as wide as it was tall, the lower branches sticking out like a stiff petticoat. I’d covered it in a white cobwebby misty stuff, hung colorful baubles on the branches, and threaded little lantern lights among the greenery that twinkled on and off. Even Mum had remarked on the tree and said how lovely it was.

“Ooh, do you know what, Chrissie? I could just do a ruby. Must be the wine.” She inspected her glass carefully. “It’s making me hungry.”

I shook my head in despair. I knew full well that ruby (ruby murray) meant curry. Was she going to speak like that all the time?

“For God’s sake, Mum, are you going to speak like Pete Horner all the time now? I’ve had enough of him shouting that rhyming slang stuff at work!”

“He’s a one, isn’t he? Eh, Chrissie?” She drained her glass and, nudging me in the ribs, said, “Hurry up then, are we going out or what?”

A sudden movement in the mirror caught my eye, something black in the corner. My heart seemed to do a nose dive and my stomach clenched as I peered closer. Moses stood up and did a cat stretch, his fur looking spiky and wrong somehow.

“Look at him, look at the cat,” exclaimed Mum, “He looks all spiky, like a hedgehog!”

Peering closer still to the mirror and putting out a shaky hand, I touched the black shape with a finger, expecting—what? I really didn’t know. But, to my relief, the black shape was on the tip of my finger now. Smiling and shaking my head, I realized it was a speck of mascara, and not the ghost of Morgan Bloom returned to haunt me. Moses laid back down and stretched out again, basking in the heat from the fire, as if he knew all was well and there was nothing to worry about. Morgan Bloom wasn’t coming to take him away any time soon.

We stepped out into the dark. It was a bitingly cold evening with not a breath of wind, the paths sparkling with frost and the sky arching above us teeming with stars, like one of Michelangelo’s beautiful painted ceilings. Trees stood tall, their branches and trunks etched white against the dark, like a black and white art photo. Seagulls shrieked as they wheeled through the air, and as if from far away I could hear the shushing of the sea as it moved up onto the sand.

Mum linked her arm through mine as we slipped and slid on the soles of our high heeled boots. “Oh, God, should have worn me crampons!” she moaned.

“I did suggest we get a taxi,” I said through gritted teeth as I clung on to Mum, my very own life buoy, albeit a very small light one.

“Taxi!” she exclaimed. “When it’s only a five minute walk down the road?”

“Yeah, but a slippery five minute walk!” I replied. Our breath came in little white puffs like speech bubbles, a bit like Batman and Robin with their “zap” and “pow.”

The restaurant was busy, and so warm and cozy inside as we ducked through the door and beneath the black oak beams that crisscrossed the ceiling. It was decorated like a fairy dell, with a magnificent silver Christmas tree, paper chains, and balloons. Christmas music blared from speakers set high on the wall.

Manic arm waving from Pete Horner alerted us to our table, where a seat for Zandra, as he kept shouting, was saved for her. My seat, for some strange reason, was next to my boss, Richard Curtis. I wondered who had saved that for me, and why. Millie gave me a secret smile as I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of the chair before I sat down, giving a friendly nod to everyone as I did so.

Rick poured me a glass of wine, which I sipped gratefully. He gave me one of his sexy winks, which made my heart rev up like an express train bombing along. He looked good in his dark suit, his shirt open at the neck to show a thick mat of chest hair. I’d never seen so much of him before and, heart pounding, I carefully averted my gaze. I noticed that he didn’t have his Stetson hat on, and his hair hung blond and floppy into his eyes.

The smell of succulent turkey, roast potatoes, and vegetables hung in the air, mingling with the loud chattering of so many people. I felt a bit shy and ill at ease until Rick moved his chair slightly closer and said, “You look very lovely tonight, Chrissie. Very festive.” He nodded towards my dress and the tinsel Mum had made into a coronet and perched on my head.

“Thank you, Rick,” I said, aware that my voice wobbled just a little bit.

Before I could speak again Pete Horner exclaimed, “We’ve got some beauties around this table tonight, Tex. I mean, look at Zandra! She’s a cracker.” He took a huge draw on his pint of beer and put his arm possessively around Mum’s shoulders. Surprisingly, Mum colored up a bit, but inclined her head around the table like she was the queen of Sheba. All the women twittered gratefully when it suddenly occurred to me that somebody was missing, the empty chair next to Lily Makepeace being a dead giveaway.

“Where’s Norman?”

“Oh well,” said Layla with a twist to her mouth. “Didn’t we say there was something about Norman?”

“Oh yes. You left early yesterday afternoon, didn’t you, Chrissie?” said Millie. “So you won’t know what happened.”

I shook my head, mystified. I’d left a bit before finishing time yesterday because I was picking Mum up from the station.

“He only took most of our Christmas ‘do’ fund,” she explained.

“He’s a naughtya boya,” said Pat in her mock Italian speak.

“We caught him this time,” twittered Lily Makepeace. “I managed to get a film on my phone.” She nodded her head decisively as she took a tiny bird like sip from her glass of white wine—or was it lemonade? I peered closer but couldn’t be sure.

“Oh my God,” I exclaimed, “What’s happened to him?”

I felt a tiny stab of jealousy as I saw Milly exchange a glance with Rick. “I’ll tell you all about it on Monday,” she said quietly.

“Okay,” I replied, looking from Rick to Millie, wondering what the shared look had been about.

“Yes, we mustn’t let it spoil our evening,” said Lily as, with a most engaging smile, she raised her glass and said, “Cheers, everybody.”

“Cheers!!” said everybody, raising their glasses high. I didn’t think Mum and Pete Horner had even been following the conversation, but they raised their glasses anyway and chinked drunkenly with a great bellow of laughter.

“You brahms and liszt already, Zandra?” I heard him ask her.

She must have known what it meant, because she said, “Not yet, but I’m getting there.” Followed by even more uproarious laughter. I noticed Millie, Pat, Layla, and Lily staring at them in amazement.

“No hat tonight?” I asked brightly.

“Oh yeah, of course, I take it everywhere with me.” He gave me a smile so charming it sent shivers running down my spine. “Don’t worry, it’s safely behind the bar.” He touched the side of his nose as if he was telling me a state secret, a gesture I could imagine the crazy Pete Horner doing. “I didn’t want to keep it on in here—people might think I’m up to no good!” He gave an impish grin, and I smiled at the first comment he’d made regarding the police since we’d been questioned. The food arrived and Rick and I chatted as we ate our starter.

“Any more sightings of Morgan Bloom?” he asked as he speared a prawn and put it in his mouth. Another surprise, because he hadn’t mentioned Morgan Bloom since that day either. I shook my head no, and once again tried to apologize for what had happened that day.

“Hey, Chrissie,” he said, laying down his fork and turning towards me. “You know what you saw. There’s no reason for you to say you’re sorry to me.”

“I feel really stupid,” I told him. “I’ve seen nothing since and, because Moses is back, I’ve been wondering if I imagined it all. Maybe I locked Moses in the cellar by mistake and Morgan Bloom didn’t take him away at all. Maybe it’s all a figment of my imagination, including the scene on the beach.” I pushed my plate away, unable to eat any more. “It all seemed so real though.” I took a deep glug of wine.

Rick pushed his empty plate away too, and turned fully to face me. “Stop, Chrissie, you’re tormenting yourself. You’re not stupid, and I’ll say again, you know what you saw.” We stared at each other then, green eyes meeting blue. Everything seemed to fade into the background—the Christmas music, the chatter of the other diners, the people at our table—everything became muted and hazy, as we stared, unable to take our gaze away from each other.

Suddenly the spell was broken by the strident voice of Pete Horner. “Oy, Tex, another round of sherberts?” And then turning to me, he asked, “Sex-o-let, what’s your poison?”

“Um,” I stammered, assuming I was Tex’s sex-o-let, “Red wine, please.”

“We may as well have a couple of bottles of red and white,” said Rick, and then hurriedly added, “For the table, of course.”

The rest of the evening was a blur thanks to the red wine that snaked like smooth oil down my throat and into my stomach, where it burned like fire. Like the fire in my sitting room that roared bright red and orange up the chimney, the fire that I thought had consumed Moses and reduced him to grey ashes. I felt immersed in a blur of laughter, singing, and manic dancing with the girls, Millie, Pat, Layla and Lily, and Mum, flashing her lovely long pins at Pete Horner. Also, surprisingly, the other type of dancing, up close and personal, folded into Rick’s arms as we gyrated around the dance floor, everybody clapping and cheering us on as if we were competing on Strictly Come Dancing for the best smooch of the year.

There were kisses at the garden gate, hot and passionate, and words whispered into my ear, mysterious words, secrets coming to light, telling me things he’d never told me before. Private things. Things that a boss shouldn’t tell his personal assistant. Could we go back there now, or had we crossed the line? He kissed my neck, tiny fluttering kisses, and drunkenly my ear, and, oh yes, my mouth again, long and hard. I felt the rasp of his stubble against my cheek and the warmth of his body pressed against mine. And then there was darkness, a deep blackness, and a sinking and a sighing.

“Go on, Zandra, you better go in now. Go with your bricks and mortar. Go on!”

“You what?”

“Your bricks and mortar, your daughter.”

“Oh, you are a one!”

Shrieking laughter, and then the creak of a door, the patter of footsteps, and silence.