Distant Voices Read online

  ‘Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?’

  She spun round with an involuntary cry of surprise at the diffident voice behind her. A man, painter’s overalls over his thick green sweater, stood there on the path. He was about her own age she guessed, and about her height, but stocky, his thick curly hair awry, his face lit by a friendly smile. ‘Sorry. I startled you.’ His voice was low and musical.

  ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’ Her uneasiness had been caused not so much by his sudden appearance as by the seeming disappearance of the grave. It had thrown her out of kilter. She had lost her bearings totally.

  ‘I’m painting over some damp patches in the church.’ He shrugged. ‘Any job, you know, when one is temporarily unwaged.’ His humorous scowl at the euphemism made her smile. ‘You must be Mrs Davis?’ His head to one side, he surveyed her with open curiosity. ‘I saw you coming through the gate from Stables Cottage. You are very much a mystery lady. Everyone in the village is falling over themselves with curiosity about you.’

  ‘Are they?’ She stared at him, half her mind still on the grave behind her, half shocked by this revelation. It was threatening. Intrusive.

  He read her mind with ease. ‘I’m sorry. It’s none of my business either. I’ll leave you to it. Unless,’ he hesitated, his eyes going to the flowers in her hand. ‘Did you want help finding a grave? Whose is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She felt foolish as she had known she would. ‘I was here earlier. I saw someone –’

  It seemed easier suddenly to start from the beginning, and strangely, now that she had started talking she wanted to go on, wanted to end the self-imposed loneliness of the past weeks. She told him about the garden, the cold dawn, the hot coffee, the music drifting across the churchyard wall.

  When she had finished he was looking puzzled. ‘I don’t quite understand. I’m not a great authority on local funerals, but I don’t think there’s been a burial here for months. So many people go to the crematorium these days. There are certainly no new graves.’

  ‘Perhaps the grave was months old then.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I’m not an expert on them either. Would they still look new?’

  He grinned. ‘All I know about graves is to be found in Hamlet, I’m afraid. “Water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body,” and all that. The latest village graves are on the far side of the church, near the path. They certainly wouldn’t be down here. These are all ages old.’ He gestured towards the dead roses. ‘I’ll show you if you like –’

  ‘No!’

  He frowned, surprised at her vehemence.

  ‘It was here. Near the yews; the roses. It was here.’ She pointed to the railings.

  ‘Mary Elizabeth Weaver.

  Born 3rd May 1672. Died 5th August 1696’

  he read, squinting at the inscription almost worn away and covered in lichen, and he shook his head. There was a long pause. ‘I don’t know of anyone in the village who plays the flute or the recorder. Not properly. Not if you don’t count the school kids.’ It was said absently as though he were mentally scanning a list of names. ‘You are sure it wasn’t a tape?’

  ‘I saw him. He had the flute in his hand.’

  ‘A visitor then. Come to see the grave of an ancestor?’

  ‘It was a new grave.’ She put her hand to her face wearily and he could see the earth encrusted round her nails. The sight made him feel strangely protective. She was very beautiful this stranger who had bought the cottage so close to the centre of the village but who remained so determinedly an enigma. Beautiful and sad.

  The sadness vanished suddenly as she turned to him and her face lit with a smile. ‘I must have been imagining it. Dreaming.’ Crouching down she put her hand through the railings and laid the posy on the grave. ‘There. She can have them with my love.’ She stood up again and turned to him. ‘Are you very busy? If the damp patches can wait come and have a cup of coffee. Then you can tell the villagers that you’ve met me and earn lots of Brownie points!’

  He laughed. She had read his mind, but only to a certain extent. He would not tell them anything. He sensed a secret here to be guarded and cherished.

  ‘I’d like some coffee. Thanks.’

  Her cottage was comfortably furnished, the kitchen separated from the living room by only a few oak studs. Sitting down at the round pine table he was able to stare appreciatively around her whole domain, then watch as she put the kettle onto the stove. There were so many questions he wanted to ask but he knew he would ask none of them. He would wait for her to volunteer.

  She took two heavy earthenware mugs down from the dresser and went to the fridge for a jug of milk. ‘You are my first visitor from the village and I don’t even know your name.’ She had her back to him as she fished in a biscuit tin and brought out some flapjacks which she arranged on a plate.

  ‘Philip. Phil.’

  ‘And does Phil have a second name?’

  He grinned. Enigma for enigma. ‘He does.’

  ‘But I’m not to know it?’

  ‘My turn for a question perhaps?’ He helped himself to a biscuit as she pushed the plate towards him.

  ‘Fair enough.’ She sat down too as they waited for the kettle to boil. ‘Fire away. Just one.’

  ‘Do you live here alone?’

  She nodded. The barrier was closing around her again. The friendliness, the banter, they were good, but why had he homed in on the one thing she could not discuss? Because it was the most important thing in her life, of course. The gap at her side. The empty place in her bed. The missing laughter even in this house that had never known him, that she had thought would comfort her after the aching emptiness in the home they had shared.

  Phil was watching her closely and she had a feeling he could read every thought passing through her mind. He turned to look out of the window. ‘You’re working on the old herb garden. I used to visit it when I was a boy. I loved the smells. It seemed so strange that you could stand in such a warm, safe, fragrant place and yet look out to the sea and watch the cold squalls of rain racing across the waves in the distance.’ He paused. She didn’t say anything so he went on. ‘My parents lived on the other side of the church, in the old rectory. When my father died my mother bought a cottage up the other end of the village so when I was made redundant in the City I came back here for a bit to help her sort things out.’

  ‘And you live alone with your mother?’ Standing up she began to make the coffee.

  He smiled and nodded. ‘Three years of marriage and a fairly good-tempered divorce under my belt. Once bitten twice shy.’

  There was silence. This was the moment to tell him. My husband died. That was all she had to say. No need to talk about the hospice and the long weeks as she sat and watched the man who was her whole existence slip slowly beyond reach. Just the bare facts.

  Outside the window the robin perched on the budding wisteria and burst into song. Phil smiled. ‘He’s followed us from the churchyard. Nosy fellow. Look at those bright eyes.’ The moment had gone.

  She nodded. ‘I’ll find him some crumbs.’

  Pushing wide the casement she held her breath suddenly. ‘Phil, listen!’

  The beautiful haunting melody from the churchyard was drifting across the garden. In silence they listened for several minutes, then, his finger to his lips, Phil stood up and silently he opened the door. They crept down the path towards the gate and round the church, following the direction of the sound.

  The young man was standing where she had seen him before, near the grave of Mary Elizabeth Weaver. But now the railings were missing, the headstone gone. The earth was newly turned. On it lay Lesley’s posy of spring herbs. As the young man played they waited motionless, seeing the tall slim body, dressed all in black, sway gently in rhythm to the music, absorbed as they were by the beauty of the sound.

  Lesley realised suddenly that she was clutching Phil’s hand. They were both holding their breath. Behind them the robin bounced cheerfully into the holli
es and, puffing up its scarlet breast feathers, it began to sing.

  The young man lowered his instrument at last. He stood for a moment, looking down at the grave then he half glanced back over his shoulder as though he too could hear the cheerful song of the bird. For half a second more the vision remained, then a squirrel ran along the path in front of them and they realised he had gone.

  Lesley slowly released her companion’s hand. She took a deep breath. ‘Tell me you saw him too.’

  ‘I saw him too.’

  She stared at him, her eyes wide, her face suddenly pale. ‘He was a ghost.’

  He nodded. ‘I think he must have been.’

  ‘But not frightening.’

  ‘No. Just sad.’ He smiled.

  ‘That beautiful music!’ She was strangely breathless. ‘Trapped in time. Still existing.’

  ‘We’re privileged.’ He looked at her. ‘I hope it’s comforting. To know people can come back. Can still love each other beyond whatever boundary it is we cross when we die.’

  So he had guessed. Perhaps the villagers with their gossip and their grapevine already knew. She nodded. ‘It is.’ For a few seconds she thought about it, reassured as he had meant her to be, but then she frowned. ‘But where is she? Where is Mary Elizabeth? Why haven’t they met out there beyond the boundary?’ She began slowly to walk forward towards the grave. Standing staring down through the railings she focused on the bunch of herbs. ‘But perhaps he did find her.’ She was talking to herself now. ‘The music. The shadow of the man. They are just echoes. Images in the mirror. That’s all.’ She turned to face him and the sadness in her eyes had gone. ‘We were idiots. We should have tried to tape the music. If there’s a next time shall we have a go?’

  He liked the ‘we’. He could feel comfortable with that. And he could live with the shadows. ‘What was your husband’s name?’ It was the right time to ask. He made no attempt to step closer to her.

  ‘Jeff.’

  He could see it was an effort even to say it.

  He nodded. ‘Lesley, I must get on with my painting. Would you come out to supper one evening? Perhaps go to a concert?’ He gave wry grin. ‘We both like music. It’s a start.’

  He could see her considering. She was staring at the robin, perched now on the railings round the grave. Suddenly she smiled. ‘You’re right,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s a start.’

  Flowers for the Teacher

  I shut the front door thankfully behind me and stood for a moment leaning against it, gazing round the cool living room of my tiny cottage. Almost at once I began to feel calm, it was so peaceful in there.

  It had been the most terrible week since I had taken over as the teacher at the village school at Sherbridge. There had been times when I had thought I would never survive until Friday at all. And it was all due to one new boy who had arrived at half term.

  His name was Paul Danefield and he was eight. He was a small sturdy child with freckles and his sole aim as far as I could see was to reduce the school to chaos and me to tears. He had very nearly succeeded in both.

  With a sigh I dropped my books on a chair and went to plug in the kettle. I was worn out. Kicking off my shoes I ran my fingers through my hair and gazed out of the kitchen window at the lavender and sweet marigolds in the bed outside. Then someone knocked on the front door. I was tempted not to answer, but as I had soon discovered when I moved to Sherbridge, the teacher was considered public property rather as the district nurse was. If I was in I was available. And they would all know by now that I was in.

  I opened the door to a tall young man in a smart grey suit. Puzzled, I tried to think who he was. I knew most of the villagers by now, and certainly all the parents, but I could not remember having seen him before.

  ‘Miss Stanley?’ His voice was low and even. ‘I wonder if I might have a word with you. My name is James Danefield. It is about my son, Paul.’

  My heart sank, but I smiled and beckoned him in, wishing I had thought to put my shoes on again before I opened the door. I felt ridiculously defenceless in bare feet.

  ‘I expect you can guess why I’m here.’ His grey eyes surveyed me rather grimly and I saw them taking in my dishevelled hair and my toes at a glance. He rather obviously disapproved of what he saw.

  ‘I assume you want to discuss Paul’s work,’ I said rather weakly. I was about to add, ‘And his rude uncouth behaviour,’ but I bit back the words, not wanting to antagonise the man.

  The kettle lid was beginning to jump up and down next door so I offered him a cup of tea. He accepted, rather curtly, I thought, and waited, his lips pursed, as I went through into the kitchen.

  As I made the tea I found a comb in the drawer and my sandals under a chair so I was feeling slightly less untidy when I carried the tray into the living room.

  ‘We haven’t met before, Miss Stanley.’ Mr Danefield refused to sit down and stood watching me pour out, his back to the fireplace. ‘As you know it was my sister you saw at the time Paul joined your school. He has no mother.’ He hesitated a moment as though wondering whether to tell me what had happened to her. Then obviously thinking better of it, he went on, ‘And I have been away in London for the last few weeks.’

  He took the cup I offered him and stirred it absently. ‘Miss Stanley, I am extremely concerned about the way you have been treating my son.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I looked at him blankly.

  ‘He is a sensitive and unhappy child,’ he went on as though I hadn’t spoken, ‘and he is still upset at having lost his mother. I am most perturbed to find that you have been picking on him, making an example of him before the whole school and even using corporal punishment.’

  ‘I’ve what?’ My tea slopped into the saucer as I dropped my cup onto it. I was furious. ‘Is that what he’s told you? Well, I’ve news for you, Mr Danefield. Your son seems to me to be anything but sensitive. He has been going out of his way to wreck the school and everything I’m trying to do. He’s unpleasant, rude, disobedient and spiteful. Ever since he came there’s been nothing but trouble. And I have never, ever, used corporal punishment on him or any of the children!’

  I was shaking with anger. I had managed to keep my temper all week in spite of Paul’s single-minded attempts to make me lose it, but this was the last straw.

  Mr Danefield put his cup down rather deliberately, his tea untouched. He looked at me for a long moment without speaking, his handsome face quite without expression, then he said, ‘I am sorry, Miss Stanley, but this is obviously a matter for the school authorities.’ Without another word he walked out and closed my front door behind him.

  I stood gazing after him in disbelief for a moment and then I threw myself full length on the sofa and burst into tears.

  How could I have been so stupid as to say all those things to him? Where was all my training, my tact, all that I had learned in psychology lectures, even my own natural politeness? How could I be such a fool? I loved this job and I loved Sherbridge and now I should probably be dismissed because I had lost my temper after the most awful week since I had finished my training; the sort of week every teacher dreads and prays will never happen. What I should have done was discuss things rationally with the child’s father. Perhaps Paul was sensitive; perhaps his behaviour was solely due to his unhappiness. Why hadn’t his aunt explained to me about his mother? I racked my brains trying to remember what she had said, but I am sure she had only told me that both his parents were away.

  Worn out by tears and exhaustion I fell asleep eventually on the sofa and it was almost dark when I awoke at last and looked around me. The tea on the tray beside me was stone cold and a milky film had formed on the liquid in the cups. I shuddered at the sight, and picking up the tray went slowly into the kitchen. Through the open window came the smell of night-scented stock and the sound of the flitting bats as they squeaked in the dusk.

  Instead of being the relaxed, happy weekend I had hoped for the next two days were a torment for me. I saw James Da
nefield in the village on Saturday afternoon, but either he didn’t see me, or he pretended he didn’t. He was dressed more casually this time, in a roll-neck sweater, and as he was chatting to Mrs Crowell outside the baker’s I saw, with an unexpected little pang of misery, that he had a very attractive smile. But it was not directed at me.

  Paul came to school as usual on Monday and I thought he seemed a little subdued. Certainly he was far better behaved and I had no need of my careful resolution to treat him with kid gloves.

  Tuesday was the same and it really seemed as though the class was settling down again. But I couldn’t relax. Every day now I was expecting a letter or a visit from the school authorities, for I had every reason to think that that cool grim-faced man meant every word he said about informing them. And who would take my word against his?

  Then on the Thursday something very strange happened. Paul was very late. I had begun to think that he would not be coming when I saw him slinking into the back of the class. As he offered no apology or explanation I decided to ignore him until break and then ask him what had happened, but to my astonishment, as soon as the others had been dismissed I saw him making his way of his own accord towards my desk. His face was tear-stained and he was holding something behind his back.

  ‘Good morning, Paul,’ I said quietly. To my surprise I felt my heart going out to the child. He looked so crestfallen and unhappy.

  ‘Please miss,’ his voice was almost a whisper. ‘I brought you these.’ From behind his back he produced a bunch of wilted flowers. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been naughty, miss.’ So saying he turned and fled.