The cottage at the end of the lane

Maeve first stayed with her Granny Eve and Grandad Clive when she was only six years old. Her parents, Sheelagh and Tom, had received a call from Tom’s mother calling him home urgently to the West Country, as his father was seriously ill.

Eve and Clive were only too happy to take care of Maeve, who was a well-behaved, imaginative child, on whom they doted. Whenever they could they babysat Maeve and always made a point of attending the school Nativity play, where she was inevitably cast as an angel. They were only too aware however, that she had a mischievous streak and that her halo sometimes slipped.

When Maeve was told she would be with Granny Eve and Grandad Clive for a whole week, she became extremely excited. She loved the old flint and thatch cottage where they lived, situated at the end of a narrow country lane, half a mile from the nearest village. The garden overflowed with flowers and shrubs, interspersed with fruit bushes in the old-fashioned way. At the far end was the vegetable patch that Clive tended in the evenings when he returned from work and on Saturday mornings whilst Eve was out shopping. There were dozens of nooks and crannies where Eve could play hide and seek and an old apple tree with low hanging branches that she climbed when they were not looking. She loved the way the sun created pools of light and deep, swirling shadows amongst the undergrowth.

Beyond the garden lay open fields and sometimes a herd of cows would peer over the hedge dividing the vegetable patch from the farm. Maeve loved the warm, grassy smell when they breathed on her, and when she was tall enough to reach them, she stroked their heads.

“Can I take Bobo with me?” she asked, as her mother began packing a small suitcase for her.

“Of course, you can, but carry him with you, don’t put him in the case.”

“I won’t do that. He wouldn’t like it in there!”

So, Bobo, the slightly scruffy, beige rabbit toy that had been a present on her first birthday, sat on Maeve’s lap as her parents drove her to Granny Eve’s house. From time to time, she lifted him up to look out of the car window, babbling a running commentary on where they were going.

As soon as the car stopped at the end of the driveway and the seatbelt restraining Maeve was undone, she charged off into Granny Eve’s waiting arms.

“You’ve grown!” Eve said, swinging her round once and then depositing her back on the ground. “You’re getting a big girl now!”

Maeve giggled. “You always say that Granny!”

“Are you staying for a coffee?” Eve asked Sheelagh.

She looked at her husband before replying. “Just a quick one. We need to get going as soon as possible.”

They went into the kitchen and sat round the table. Eve put the coffee put on the stove and then fetched a home-made cake from the larder.

“Let’s go and see if the cows are in the field,” Clive said to Maeve. They disappeared into the garden, taking Bobo with them. I

“Dad’s had a heart attack, but we’re not quite sure how bad it is,” Tom told Eve, as soon as Maeve was out of earshot. “Once we get to the hospital and there’s more news, we’ll let you know.”

“He’s in the best place and we both hope he’ll be ok. Give your mum our love too.”

Twenty minutes later, Tom and Sheelagh left.

Maeve spent the day playing in the garden and then helping her gran prepare dinner. For her it had been a long day, so Eve took her up to bed early. It was the first time she had had the spare bedroom to herself. Usually, she slept on a mattress laid next to the double bed her parents occupied. This time she had the whole bed to herself – well her and Bobo. She snuggled down into the cool, cotton sheets, clutching Bobo to her chest and soon fell to sleep.

Later she was woken with a start by a shrill cry outside, that was repeated three times, becoming softer each time. Grandad Clive had told her a fox often wandered round the fields during the night, so perhaps that was him calling. She would try to remember to ask Grandad in the morning over breakfast.

Maeve tried to settle down again, but now that it was almost dark outside, she began to notice shadows in the corners of the bedroom, which seemed to move round the furniture. She held Bobo tighter, trying to decide whether to wake Granny Eve and ask if she could sleep in their bedroom.

She turned over and watched a woman slowly emerge from a shadow and approach the bed. Maeve was too frightened to scream but had the presence of mind to pull the covers over her head. If she could not see it, then it could not see her. She waited for what seemed a lifetime, expecting the duvet to be yanked upright, but nothing happened. Eventually, she took a deep breath and slowly peered over the edge of the covers. The woman was sitting in the armchair next to the bed and smiling.  Suddenly she did not seem scary at all and so gradually Maeve dropped off again.

When she woke in the morning, there was no sign of the mystery woman, only a slight dip in the cushion on which she had been sitting. Although the early sun was streaming through the windows, there were still shadows galore lurking in the corners of the bedroom. Maeve tried to work out which object had created each individual shadow but had to admit defeat. There were too many of them and some shadows appeared to be the wrong shape and they continually morphed into something different when she fixed her eyes on them.

“Granny Eve, who was the woman in my bedroom last night?” she asked, as she tucked into another slice of buttered toast at the breakfast table.

“What woman? Only your grandad and I were here and we didn’t go into your bedroom.”

“A woman with pale, curly hair. About mummy’s age. She was wearing a long blue dress.”

A shadow passed over Clive’s brow. He swallowed the last of his cup of tea before replying. “You must have been dreaming. No-one was there. I’ve got to go to work now, so I’ll see you two later.”

He stood up, pecked his wife on the chin and kissed Maeve on the top of her head before he walked out of the kitchen.

“I’m sure I saw someone,” Maeve mumbled.

“Don’t worry, love. Everything is ok.” Eve stroked Maeve’s hair, then gathered the dirty dishes together. As she carried them to the sink, she muttered something under her breath, so that Maeve would not hear it.

“You’ve seen her too – just like your mum and me. I’ll explain everything when you’re older.”

Unfortunately, that never happened. When Maeve was old enough to understand, the opportunity never presented itself. Either Clive was with them or they were so busily engaged with something else, that the mysterious night visitor slipped Eve’s mind.

Twenty years later, Eve died, having been a widow for the last two years. Maeve had kept in touch with them as often as she could, but her schoolwork and latterly her college course, meant that it was by phone calls more than visits. She always made a point of visiting them on birthdays and at Christmas, when there was a homemade Christmas cake and mince pies.

Three weeks after Eve’s death, Maeve received a letter from a solicitor. After the stock phrases expressing condolences for her loss, it read:

“Under the terms of your late grandmother’s Will we were appointed as her Executors and are currently in the process of obtaining a grant of Probate, so that we can administer her estate. This may take several months, but in the meantime, we are writing to advise you that she has left her cottage to you free of all inheritance tax.

Once Probate has been obtained, we will be able to take all the necessary steps to transfer the title of the property into your name.”

Maeve scanned the remainder of the letter without really absorbing it. She had expected a small gift from her grandmother, such as a piece of jewellery or a painting, but not the cottage. She rang her mother and read the letter to her.

“Yes, I knew she was leaving you the house. After Clive’s death your grandmother and I spoke about what would happen when she died. She was always very practical that way. Your father and I are well off enough for our needs and your aunt married a millionaire, so she and your cousins don’t want anything. Eve decided to help you instead.” There was a slight pause. “Plus, the solicitor said it would be better from a tax point of view.”

“But ….”

“There’s no but. You’re the grandchild they saw most often and you kept in touch when your cousins didn’t. It’s what she and your grandad wanted. Whether you keep it or sell it, is up to you, but don’t rush to a decision.”

“I always assumed the cottage would go to you and your sister,” Maeve replied, still unable to grasp that soon it would be hers.

“No. We don’t need it and besides, I would want to keep it and she would sell it immediately. Your gran always thought the cottage would be the ideal place for you. Now, you’ve finished your course and set up your own business, you could work from there. After all, you always told her you found the place inspirational.”

That night Maeve sat for hours in the darkness, wondering what she should do. If she moved to the cottage, it would be easy to work from home. Most of her commissions came by word of mouth or from her website and the spare bedroom could easily be converted into a studio.

Four months later, she was still mulling the same question over, without reaching any decision. Then another letter arrived from the solicitor.

“We are pleased to advise you that we have secured probate and the title to the cottage has now been transferred into your name, as you will see from the copy attached. The keys are available from our office if you would like to collect them. Please telephone to arrange an appointment to do this and remember to bring proof of your identity with you to comply with all the current regulations.

In the meantime, we enclose a letter that your grandmother left with us for safekeeping and which she asked us to pass on to you once the title had been transferred.”

A pale blue envelope was enclosed with the letter, with the name Maeve written in Eve’s spidery handwriting. Maeve gazed at it for a few moments, before breaking the seal and removing three sheets of matching blue paper.

“My Dearest Maeve,

As you are reading this, you will know that Clive and I decided to leave the cottage to you. Your mother will already have told you the practical reasons why we came to this conclusion, but there is another, less logical one as well.

Do you recall the first time you stayed with us without your parents? Your other grandfather was ill and they wanted to be with him, so you came to us for a week. I think you were about seven at the time.

You told us the first morning that you had seen a lady sitting by your bed during the night. Clive dismissed it as a dream, but I knew exactly who it was, as I had seen her before and so had your mother. I wanted to explain things at the time, but Clive was against it and I did not want to cause an atmosphere.

I had hoped to speak to you about it later, but somehow the right moment never came, so I decided to write this letter.

The person you saw was my great-grandmother, Louisa. I know that sounds ludicrous, as she died over a hundred and fifty years ago, but I am sure it was here. She was one of five children and when she was fifteen, she went to work at the local manor house as a maid and general help. Her favourite tasks were looking after the children and gradually she went from being a maid to being a nanny. Everything went well for five years and then she discovered she was pregnant herself. The problem was that she wasn’t married. The father was a local farmhand, Luke, who used to bring produce from the farm to the manor house. Quite simply that was how they met. Anyway, he stood by Louisa and proposed marriage. By that time, she had lost her job and her parents had disowned her because of the scandal she had brought onto the family. You’ve got to remember that things were so different over a hundred and fifty years ago. People were more religious and sex outside marriage was a sin.

To cut a long story short, she did marry and she and Luke found a small cottage to rent. He continued working on the farm and she earned what she could, where she could, by doing odd jobs sewing and cleaning. Eight months into the pregnancy she fell ill. Luke went to see her parents and eventually won them round. They agreed to let her stay with them until the baby came, so she moved back home. The baby, my grandmother, was born three weeks later, but unfortunately Louisa died during childbirth. 

Luke wasn’t able to look after the baby on his own and continue working, so he moved into the cottage and by all accounts he became part of the family.

Sometimes when my grandmother was tiny, strange shadows seemed to move round the cottage, mainly in the bedroom and on a couple of occasions a woman with blond curly hair was spotted sitting by the bed.   She was recognised and everyone who saw her, said it was Louisa. After all, she had been a nanny when she was alive, so it was natural for her to want to guard over her daughter after her death.

My mother saw Louisa after I was born, I’ve seen her, your mother has, and you did too. But you aunt never has and never believed we did.

That is the other reason why Clive and I wanted you to have the house. There is obviously a bond between you and we’re sure you will feel as happy and comfortable here as we always did.

All this may seem very strange to you, so please try it. Live in the house for six months or so and I’m sure you’ll be convinced.

There’s so much more I would love to say to you, but this isn’t the right place.

One day we’ll meet again, but in the meantime remember that we both love you and always will.

Granny Eve.

xxx”

A tear rolled slowly down Maeve’s cheek and dropped onto the letter. She wiped it off, folded the sheets of paper and replaced them in the envelope.

The following weekend she drove down to the cottage. The country lane looked much the same as she remembered it, but the cottage itself had changed. Weeds had begun to invade the flower beds and the vegetable patch lay untended and unloved. The windows were grimy and cobwebs were forming round the doors. A raven cawed at her as she walked up the path and slid the key into the lock. When she opened the door, a stale smell wafted towards her, not the floral scent to which she was accustomed. Granny Eve always had vases of flowers dotted throughout the house, most of which came from her cutting patch.

Slowly Maeve walked from room to room, opening windows to let the fresh country air flood in. Wherever she moved she seemed to be accompanied by shadows, which grew darker and denser the further she went, but without scaring her at all.

Finally, she reached the kitchen. She stopped beside the pine table and gently drew her fingertips across the surface, which had been smoothed by years of wear. Glancing across the room, she saw a figure sitting by the range. She froze. It was Granny Eve and she was smiling. Next to her was Grandad Clive and Louisa was standing behind them.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Maeve finally said. “Or maybe I was. I think I understand what you meant now, Gran.”

Eve nodded slowly and smiled. The figures gradually faded and the staleness of the air subsided, to be replaced by the scent of roses and carnations – Granny Eve’s favourite flowers.

Maeve remained the whole weekend, cleaning and tidying and re-arranging the rooms. She decided to make the bedroom where she had stayed so many years ago as her room and to convert her grandparents’ room to a studio. It faced south and was better lit, so would be ideal for her graphic design work. A little voice at the back of her head kept telling her that somehow it would have felt impolite to sleep there herself.

The garden desperately needed some attention, but that could wait until after she had moved in. Maeve had little horticultural knowledge but was willing to learn and was determined to retain the traditional cottage style that Clive and Eve had loved so much. It was the least she could do.