First Appearances

Laura stared in disbelief. This was what she had invested her inheritance in? This was not a ‘country house, needing some modernisation.’ She recognised the honey-coloured walls and tall, spindly Tudor chimneys from the photographs she’d received in the States, the stone window arches and massive, forbidding doors with studded ironwork, that romantic view over the wild Cornish moors … but the adjacent tower was crumbling and cracked, the crenellated roofline had gaps like rotting teeth and the glass, that once reflected blazing fiery sunsets, or filtered prisms onto the stone flags within, was now just muddy shards in the overgrown grass.

The blustery wind whipped Laura’s hair, stinging her face. Wandering round the walls, each view confronted her with accusation and shame. She’d wanted to honour Pop’s memory, restoring the house he had yearned for, but this…

‘Oh, Pop, what have I done!’ The silent cry was lost in the ether. Pop couldn’t help her now.

Gravel crunched behind her, the long-nosed car smooth and silent, its expensive purr carried away on the breeze. Harry stepped out, all silver hair, bespoke suit and gold cufflinks, radiating success. As they pushed open the double doors, the sudden gust swirled dust motes in the slanting rays. Musty air left a dry, cloying feel in Laura’s mouth and she licked her lips, tasting the dust of ages. The clang behind her was a prison door; Laura could see no way out of the future she had blithely signed up to just weeks ago.

Harry’s plans, unrolled on the wide, sun-warmed stone cill of the garden room reassured her a little: his proposals seemed feasible, his self-confidence unshakeable. His attitude said, ‘I’ll deal with everything; you just keep out of the way and pay the bills.’ And yet… she couldn’t take to him. Too suave, too patronising. Sweet-natured, compliant, generous, looking younger than her twenty-eight years in jeans and tee-shirt, Laura Penally was not a fool. Her self-made father had taught her well and warning signs here were flashing neon. She needed Harry Bowman, but no way would he take her for a ride! But, always keep an ace up your sleeve, Pop said. So she sighed, asked Harry nicely to please hurry things along and keep costs down. She didn’t need to see the small smile playing on his expensive tan to know it was there, as he strolled out to his sports car.

Alone in the house, seeing it properly for the first time, Laura gazed, awed, at the towering, vaulted ceilings, the great carved stone ribs soaring overhead. Huge fireplace surrounds, wide, sweeping stairways, deep window reveals: Laura was falling for the house. There was a warmth and strength drawing her in, solidity and permanence giving its own reassurance. Wandering outside, she rested both hands on the yellow-grey stone walls, sun-warmed and weathered to sandpaper roughness. When she gazed up the jagged roofline reeled crazily against the blue sky and racing clouds and Laura had to look away, grounding herself, until the dizziness went. Drifts of wild daffodils cast their honey scent onto the Spring breeze, and she breathed in deeply: Yes, Tor House was worth fighting for. It was a survivor – it must go on. And from the house itself came an echo of the past, a voice that drifted through her like smoke: I. Am. Here. said the house. I will endure. Help me.

__________

Time passed; work began. Back home again, weekly updates brought some comfort, yet the cost… Not spiralling, Laura thought with bitter humour, more rocket-propelled. Each bill made huge sink-holes in her inheritance, with everything running over budget. Laura made up her mind. Heading to the airport, she messaged her friends. ‘I need to see what this guy’s spending my money on!’

__________

Pulling up in soft afternoon sunshine, it was a shock, despite the updates, to see the tower gone, just a huge stack of stone piled to one side. Scaffolding, flapping blue tarpaulins, piles of tools marking early-finish Friday surrounded the house - surgeons’ equipment, operations suspended until Monday. Wandering through the rooms, she flinched from the stone window arches, reproaching her in their bleak emptiness; anger growing with each betrayal, Laura’s chest tightened and breathing came short and fast. So much work paid for, not even started. Slumping down on the floor, back against the cold grey stone of the massive carved fireplace, Laura’s eyes shut tight, frustration boiling. Slowly, the old house began to work its magic, and eventually she calmed.

The feeling of being watched crept up gradually, growing under a chill breath of air that had nothing to do with the outside breeze. Cautiously, New York raised, she kept her breathing regular and slid her eyes to the gloomy shadows by the staircase. Nothing there… but in front of her a flicker of movement that wasn’t movement, just a disturbance of the light … Eyes wide open now, Laura was on her feet, jeans and white tee shirt dusty and grubby from the old stonework. Backing into the reassuring strength of the corner beside the fireplace, she glanced round for a weapon, but against what? This was crazy. But the flicker of movement came again…

‘Who’s there?’ Her voice came out husky despite herself, and she eased left, towards the doorway, eyes never leaving the source of the movement. The merest hint of a shape, a darkness broken by white, almost appeared before her, but not enough to be sure. The chill in the air was stronger now; Laura was on the point of trying to cut and run when she heard a voice… or rather didn’t hear it, more felt it inside her. She froze.

‘Miss Laura?’ If this was a ghost, it was a very timid one!

‘Who are you?’ She was scared, yes, but still… curious, fascinated. Silence for a moment.

‘I’m Martha… Trevelyan…’ came the voice inside her. She pushed down the fear and stood straighter, ready to run but needing to know…

‘What do you want?’ The shape flickered again and became more visible; a dark dress and white square of an apron, the hint of an old, lined face under silver snowy hair and white mob cap, but still indistinct, shadowy.

‘Miss Laura… Oi needs to tell’ee…he’s a swindler, that ’arry. ’ The accent was broad Cornish, straight from the local village.

‘Yeah, I guess so. I reckon he’s on the make. How do you know?’ This was mad… she was talking to herself now; if anyone saw her, she’d be locked up. And yet…

‘I heered him. ’e were tellin’ the men to take their time… said he could take care of … ‘creative accountin’. I remembered that ’specially.’ A satisfied nod. 'Said he’d claim for extra men, and time lost for bad weather, but they didn’t – he do give them the day off!’

So her suspicions were right, then. Well, this would be interesting if it went to court, Laura thought with grim humour. And I call as my witness, your honour…

‘Right, well, thanks… Martha…I’ll deal with it. How do you fit in here?’

The figure became almost solid as a distinct feeling of pride passed from Martha through Laura. ‘I worr cook here for over fifty years! That worr my kitchen downstairs! Aye, that’s where I passed on, too…’ a regretful nod; she paused, remembering past days. ‘I didn’t want to leave, see. My home. That tower, that’s where I lived…’

‘Will you tell me about it?’ Laura’s fear had gone; eagerness and passion drove her to sink back to the floor, pushing back her long chestnut hair as she settled cross-legged, gazing up almost desperately. At last she could learn more about this wonderful, glorious … millstone round her neck that Tor House was becoming.

Martha’s image wavered and flickered as she seemed to be moving away, then settled comfortably onto a wooden chest.

‘Me old bones, y’know.’

‘You feel things like that now?’ Laura stopped – maybe it wasn’t polite; but Martha wasn’t offended.

‘No, s’pose not, dear. Just habit, really. See, I were old for a long time before I passed, seventy-eight I were, and still working! That were back aways, with the old king on the throne.’

Laura’s knowledge of British monarchy was sketchy. ‘Old king?’ she frowned.

‘Aye, George… mad old fool.’ Martha rolled her eyes. ‘Started here aged thirteen, I did, kitchen maid. Ooh, hard, that was. Worked up to being cook – only the housekeeper above me, see. Important position, cook.’

Time passed.. four hours, five. Laura soaked up every word, hungry for more. Martha recognised in Laura someone whose love for the house matched her own deep devotion. Her loneliness, and longing for the big old house to be saved made her desperate to connect with Laura, to show her how wonderful it had been, filled with light, people, grand occasions, to inspire her to keep going. Through her, Laura re-lived the sounds, the laughter, pictured the glittering dances, the extravagance - and felt the hardships.

The light had faded when the talk gradually petered out. Laura, stretching, easing stiff and chilled muscles, reluctant to tear herself away, had work to do… a score to settle with Mr. Harry Bowman. Martha watched Laura’s car pull away, relieved, hopeful, but still uncertain.

‘God bless ’ee, Miss Laura,’ she murmured.

__________

Time passed; things happened. Harry was gone, exposed and ruined. Creaking, stretching, with slow, uncertain steps, the old house was awakening from its long sleep. Martha, though delighted, still ached for her home in the tower. As its foundations were laid, she danced through the house, quavery voice raised in song, uncaring of discovery. The men, oblivious, complained about the sudden draught but Laura heard, faintly, her song, inside her head; it startled, then amused her.

Under the new manager, the work rate increased dramatically. A substantial sum had been recovered from Harry’s ‘unfortunate administrative error’ … but Martha knew he was still around, wandering near the house most evenings, edging under the trees along the drive, a brooding bitterness eating at him; she could sense his presence before she saw him. Then one night, everything changed: a frantic night of panic and fear – and decision.

__________

The tremor in the air alerted her, and she moved to her first-floor lookout over the front doors. Yes, Harry was back, crabbing sideways, weighed down by a heavy can that bumped his legs. Martha sensed danger; there was no option. Cautiously, she probed his mind, penetrating the black mist, searching for the man within … and fell back in shock, grasping the bodice of her dress, reeling from the horror she had seen.

‘Laura … oh, my dear, where are you? Come quickly!’ Frantic now, she looked round wildly, but there was nothing to help her. Only Laura, asleep in the village, could help, and that meant Martha, after two hundred years, had to find a way to …

‘I’m coming, Laura, I’m coming,’ she whispered, over and over, as she took her first steps outside, moving forwards, drawn to Laura’s presence.

__________

Laura woke with a jolt and froze. Something had woken her… someone was there. She lay motionless, every nerve on fire. The voice came again, urgent, insistent.

‘Laura, wake up! Come quickly!’

She sat up cautiously, disbelieving. ‘Martha?’

Moonlight fell blue and silver on Martha, shimmering like smoke as it passed through her.

‘Yes, dear, it’s me. Now come, Laura! Harry’s back - he’s going to burn down the House!’

‘Oh, dear God! I must phone … OK, I’m coming, let me dress and I’ll be there!’

__________

The yellow stone house reared against a backdrop of racing white clouds on a blue Summer morning. History and permanence anchored it deep, as its impossibly tall chimneys searched for the heavens. Beyond the boundary hedges, the Cornish moors rippled as sunlight chased the clouds across the purples and greens.

Leaning back in the afternoon sunshine, Laura surveyed the house. Unchanged, a survivor. She closed her eyes in silent thanks. Moving indoors, past the workmen, up the stone stairs to the privacy of the top floor.

‘Martha?’ God, don’t let anyone hear me, she thought.

‘Hello, Laura. Is it over?’

‘Yes, thanks to you. They put out the fire without much damage. I told the police ‘someone’ had seen Harry and called me (that was you), and I came to check. They picked him up with a burned hand and smelling of gas… petrol,’ she corrected. ‘Martha, you saved the House! Is there anything I can do for you? But I don’t suppose…’ she trailed off.

‘Well,’ Martha hesitated. ‘There is one thing… I wonder… Could I have an official title, be recognised as being here, perhaps? If it’s all right .…’

‘Oh, Martha, our very own Resident Ghost! Of course! Would you be my Housekeeper?

‘Oh, Laura! Housekeeper! That’s more than I dreamed of… you don’t know what that means to me… Promotion!’