Twenties Girl

Twenties Girl Page 135

OK. This is my last try. I really, really mean it.

I stand up and approach the little pond on the green. I’m sure ponds are spiritual places. More spiritual than benches, anyway. There’s a mossy stone fountain in the middle, and I can just picture Sadie dancing in it, splashing and shrieking, all those years and years ago, with some policeman trying to drag her out.

“Spirits.” I extend my arms cautiously. There’s a rippling in the water, but that could just be the wind.

I have no idea how to do this. I’ll make it up as I go along.

“It is I, Lara,” I intone in a low sepulchral voice. “Friend to the spirits. Or, at least, one spirit,” I amend quickly.

I don’t want Henry the Eighth appearing.

“I seek… Sadie Lancaster,” I say momentously.

There’s silence, except for a duck quacking on the pond. Maybe seek isn’t powerful enough.

“I hereby summon Sadie Lancaster,” I intone, more commandingly. “From the depths of the spirit world, I call her. I, Lara Lington, the psychic one. Hear my voice. Hear my summons. Spirits, I entreat thee.” I start to wave my arms around impressively. “If thou knowest Sadie, send her to me. Send her to me now.”

Nothing. Not a voice, not a glimpse, not a shadow.

“Fine!” I say, dropping my arms down. “Don’t be summoned.” I aim my words into the air, in case she’s listening. “I don’t care. I’ve got better things to do all day than stand here talking to the spirit world. So there.”

I stump back to the bench, pick up my bag and grab my mobile phone. I dial the taxi firm that brought me here and ask for a taxi straightaway.

Enough is enough. I’m out of here.

The taxi guy tells me the cab driver will meet me in front of the church in ten minutes, so I head over to it, wondering if they might have a coffee machine in the lobby or anything. The whole place is locked up, though. I head back out and am just reaching for my phone again to check my texts, when something catches my eye. It’s a sign on a gate: The Old Vicarage .

The Old Vicarage. I suppose that would have been where the vicar lived in the old days. Which means… it would have been where Stephen Nettleton lived. He was the son of the vicar, wasn’t he?

Curiously, I peer over the wooden gate. It’s a big old gray house with a gravel drive and some cars parked at the side. There are some people going in the front door, a group of about six. The family living here must be at home.

The garden’s overgrown, with rhododendrons and trees and a path leading round the side of the house. I can just glimpse an old shed in the distance and wonder if that’s where Stephen did his painting. I can just imagine Sadie creeping along that path, her shoes in one hand, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

It’s quite an atmospheric place, with its old stone wall and long grass and shady patches in the garden. Nothing modern seems to have been introduced. It’s still got the feel of history to it. I wonder-

No. Stop it. I’m giving up. I’m not looking anymore.

But maybe-

No. She wouldn’t be here. No way. She’s got too much dignity. She said it herself-she’d never be a trailer. Never in a million years would she hang around an old boyfriend’s house. Especially the old boyfriend who broke her heart and never even wrote to her. It’s a stupid idea-

Already my hand is unlatching the gate.

This is the very, very, very last place I’m looking.

I crunch over the gravel, trying to think of an excuse to be here. Not a lost dog. Maybe I’m studying old vicarages? Maybe I’m an architecture student. Yes. I’m doing a thesis on “religious buildings and the families who live in them.” At Birkbeck.

No. Harvard.

I approach the entrance and am raising my hand to ring the old bell when I notice the front door is unlatched. Maybe I can sidle in without anyone noticing. I cautiously push the door open and find myself in a hall with paneled walls and old parquet. To my surprise, a woman with a mousy bob and a Fair Isle jumper is standing behind a table covered with books and leaflets.

“Hello.” She smiles as though she’s not at all surprised to see me. “Are you here for the tour?”

The tour?

Even better! I can wander around and I don’t even have to invent a story. I had no idea vicarages were charging for tours these days, but I suppose it makes sense.

“Er… yes, please. How much?”

“That’ll be five pounds.”

Five whole pounds? Just to see a vicarage? Bloody hell.

“Here’s a guide.” She hands me a leaflet, but I don’t look at it. I’m not exactly interested in the house. I walk swiftly away from the woman, into a sitting room filled with old-fashioned sofas and rugs, and look all around.