Barbara Erskine - Sands of Time

Mattie, where are you?

The boy’s voice was right behind Charlotte as though he too was looking out of the window.

Mattie, no!

Charlotte spun round, her heart thumping.

The room was empty.

‘Rob, did you hear that?’ Her voice was husky. She found she was shaking. Turning back to the window she glanced out. The garden was deserted. Under the apple tree the shadows were dark and empty.

‘Rob? Rob!’ Running across the landing Charlotte threw open his door. ‘Rob? Did you hear him?’

Rob groaned. Turning over onto his back he opened his eyes and blinked. ‘What time is it?’

‘I don’t know. Three-ish, I think. Rob, he was here, in my room.’

‘Who?’ Rob sat up. He was bare-chested, wearing only his shorts, and Charlotte was aware suddenly of how much she wanted him.

‘I don’t know who. The boy. The one we heard earlier. The one calling for Mattie.’ She broke off. The girl. The girl on the swing. Had that been Mattie?

But she had been a dream. Surely, she had been a dream.

‘Rob, I’m scared. Can I come in here with you?’

For a moment she wondered if he would refuse. He said nothing, looking at her, then he held out his arms.

‘Why did you go to bed on your own?’ she asked as she snuggled in beside him.

‘You disappeared. I thought maybe you felt it was too soon.’ He reached out and kissed her forehead gently. Then his arms slid round her waist and he drew her close. ‘I’m so sorry, Carla. I’ve missed you so much, my darling. I just didn’t dare hope that everything was going to be all right.’

* * *

‘I think the cottage is haunted.’ Spooning boiled eggs into egg cups, Charlotte set them on the table and reached for the toast rack. She was pink and scrubbed from the shower and glowing with happiness.

Rob nodded. ‘I wondered when you would finally come to that conclusion.’

‘You think so too?’

Spreading marmalade on his toast, Rob shrugged and shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t think of any other explanation.’

‘But you don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘I know.’ He grinned.

‘Does it scare you?’

‘No.’ He reached for his coffee. ‘It sounded like a child. Worried. Lost. Frightened but not frightening. I think this is one of those places where events have been recorded in the house walls. Like a video. It plays the same sequence again and again.’

‘But there must have been a reason for it to have recorded that bit. He has lost someone. He is desperate to find her.’

The girl on the swing.

She sat down opposite him. ‘Poor boy. I wish we could help.’

‘Videos don’t need help.’ He began to tap his egg.

‘I suppose not.’ She wasn’t convinced.

He glanced up. ‘This isn’t going to spoil the holiday for you?’

She shook her head and smiled. ‘After last night? After all, he brought us back together.’

‘He did, didn’t he?’ He lifted the top off his egg neatly. ‘What shall we do today?’

She didn’t answer. When he glanced up again he saw that she was smiling.

Later that morning they strolled along the lane to the village shop. It was the old man in the queue for the tiny post office counter who recognised them. ‘You the folks from Lilac Cottage?’

Rob nodded.

‘I thought so. You seen young Matilda yet?’

Behind them Rob heard Charlotte’s quick intake of breath.

‘Who’s Matilda?’ he asked.

‘Now, Bill Forrest, don’t you go scaring folk!’ The post mistress leaned forward and tapped the glass partition between them sharply. ‘Take no notice of him, my dears. He’s an old fool.’

‘No.’ Charlotte stepped forward. ‘No, wait. Tell us please.’

The old man glanced at her. His eyes were hazy blue, but they were very keen. ‘You seen her, then?’

‘On the swing. Yes.’

‘Matilda Drew, that was. Her brother, he unfastened the swing for a prank. Thought it would dump her on the grass, he did, poor lad. Never occurred to him that a fall could kill her.’

‘Oh God, that’s awful.’ Charlotte stared at him.

‘When did this happen?’ Rob put his arm round Charlotte’s shoulder.

‘Years ago. Long before my time.’ The old man tucked his pension deep into his pocket. ‘You go and look in the churchyard if you want to know about them. The grave is there, near the gate.’

* * *

They pushed open the lych gate on the way back to the cottage. The old stone, covered in moss, had leaned over slightly. The words were badly weathered.

Matilda Drew

born 1753 died 1827

May her spirit fly free as a bird on the wing

There was a picture of a dove beneath the words, then under that again a smaller, less ornate inscription said simply:

And here lies also her brother John

born 1750 died 1841

Rob frowned. ‘That can’t be right. That means she was in her seventies when she died and he was over ninety. It must be the wrong grave.’

‘No, it means John changed his mind. He got there in time.’ Charlotte ran a finger over the rough lettering. She glanced at him. ‘That’s what I think happened. He realised what he had done and he ran out into the garden as she began to swing and he saved her.’ Somehow she knew she was right.

‘And his panic was so great that the house has remembered it all these years?’ Rob nodded. ‘They must have been very close, to be buried together like this. Neither of them married.’

‘Do you think they were happy in the house?’

‘Of course they were.’ Rob grinned at her. ‘I think there is a lesson here somewhere, don’t you? Even if it does come right in the end one can still regret a mistake for eternity.’ He pulled her against him gently and kissed her, then, stepping away, he leaned across to pick a wild rose from the hedge. Laying it at the foot of the headstone he stood for a moment in silence, then he turned and reached out again for Charlotte’s hand. ‘Come on, he said. ‘Let’s go home.’

For a few blessed moments the gallery was quiet. Too quiet. Stephanie glanced over her shoulder towards the doorway. The Egyptian rooms at the British Museum were usually packed with children at this time of day. Neat groups walking two by two in uniform speaking in hushed, respectful voices or chaotic hordes, rushing about uncontrolled, screaming; either way, this was one of the places they headed for first. And they all looked at the mummies. The ghoulish fascination exerted by a real dead body passed none of them by, from the most repressed scholar to the loudest, most rebellious thug.