The Silence of Ghosts Read online

  ‘I have good news and bad news,’ he said, still chafing his hands together. ‘The bad news is that Donald’s motor launch is out of order. He’s still waiting for parts from Barrow, and he doesn’t expect to get them now till the bad weather is over.’

  ‘And the good news?’

  ‘He has a catboat, the Tigger. Donald is a great Winnie-the-Pooh fan. The boat has room for three people. It could do the trick, if you think you can sail it.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I know his boat quite well. Where is it?’

  ‘That’s the other good news. He’s moored it at the steamer jetty while the steamers are down at the other end of the lake.’

  Rose took my hand.

  ‘You’ll both have to keep warm. There’ll be a sharp wind on the lake, and it could be dangerous if you get a chill. How will you get back?’

  ‘On the boat, of course. It’s about four miles each way.’

  She shook her head, and Jeanie and Dr Raverat followed suit.

  ‘My medical advice is that you shouldn’t do this at all. For one thing, you’re under enormous stress following Octavia’s death, and for another you must be exhausted. It’s after one o’clock, and I know I’m tired.’

  ‘I need to do it tonight,’ I said. ‘You heard the weather forecast earlier. If we wait till morning, the lake may freeze over and the roads will be more impassable than ever.

  Oliver broke in.

  ‘The snow I brought in with me was the last, for now. All the cloud is breaking up and it’s going to get a lot colder. But if the cloud is blown away, there’ll be a good wind and the moon’s a week past the half turn.’

  ‘Have it your way, but I can’t come with you. I have patients who may need me. Rose and I will carry Octavia to the boat.’

  Oliver was right. The moon wasn’t at its best, but it was bright and getting brighter. Everywhere, stars had emerged, as if to welcome my sister into their silent world. Rose and the doctor placed her on deck, facing towards the stern, with some room to spare. A catboat has a gaff-rigged mast set far forward, and a single sail. The beam’s very broad, leaving room on deck. Oliver and I had to stay there in order to navigate. He was not a sailor, which put the greatest burden on me.

  We were well supplied for our eight-mile journey, down and back. In addition to our coats and hats and scarves and gloves, Jeanie filled the Tigger with heaps of blankets, stone hot-water bottles and two flasks of hot soup.

  I hugged Rose goodbye, and her mother, and shook the doctor’s hand. He was still concerned, but he knew there was nothing more he could do.

  Donald McIntyre was at the jetty, of course. He told me how sorry he was to hear of Octavia’s death. He said he’d watched her on her walks through the village and been entranced by her pale, childlike beauty.

  He came on board with me and spent ten minutes reminding me how to sail a catboat.

  ‘I brought this over from the States,’ he told me. ‘They sail a lot of them there. You’ll be running before the wind all the way to Howtown. Take care of the boom, in case it flies off from one side of the boat to the other, and be careful of swamping. There are heavy waves tonight, and this boat will wallow if you’re not very careful.’

  And so we sailed out into the lake and into the darkness. Sailing was difficult at first, and for a while we took on water, which Oliver threw back out again. But finally I was able to take control at the helm, keeping us on course by careful turns of the rudder.

  For a while Oliver and I talked. He asked how things went with my parents in London.

  ‘Not well at all,’ I said. ‘My father says he will disown me if I marry Rose.’

  He was surprised, and I told him things about my father I had never told anyone. He listened well, and he avoided counselling me, as he might well have done to a regular parishioner. I asked him why he had never married, for I guessed him to be well over thirty.

  ‘I wasn’t lucky like you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t meet the right woman.’

  ‘It’s not too late. I suspect it’s never too late. My mother-in-law-to-be has you in her sights, you know. Not for herself, but for any number of young women she thinks would make good vicars’ wives. She says a vicar without a wife is only half a vicar and half a man.’

  ‘Well, she’s right there. A wife and family are important assets in our trade. Some say the mission fields are the place to go hunting.’

  I laughed.

  ‘You don’t need to travel that far. I went to Dakar and lost my leg and found a wife back at home.’

  In the end, we had to concentrate so much on navigating and keeping warm that a silence fell on us. I looked up at the great expanse of the night sky. Even in its half light, the moon as it moved cast a blue-white glow on countless galaxies, and the stars moved too. If I had believed in angels, I might have seen them striding across the bright pinnacles of the stars, their wings lambent with starlight. I remembered that Octavia had always loved the angels on our Christmas cards and the angel figures in our nativity. And who am I to say I do not believe in angels, when I have spoken with ghosts and seen their pale faces in a dark room, while Octavia looked on?

  I lay back, watching it all, and there was silence across the lake. I thought it ironic that Octavia, who had spent her short life in an aching silence should make this, her final journey, through the greatest silence one can imagine. She lay at my feet in a white sheet like a shroud, and I knew that if I touched her she would be colder than death itself. But I could not bear to think of that, so continued to look up at the stars.

  It was not easy navigating at night, and had it not been for the moon and the starlight, we should surely have lost our bearings completely. We hugged the eastern shoreline, passing Sharrow Bay, while the fells loomed over us like giants in the night sky.

  Suddenly we saw yellow lights that flickered on the moving water ahead. At first, neither of us could make out what they were, but as we drew near it hit me like a blow that they were coming from the windows of Hallinhag House. I wanted to stop, but as I prepared to do so, the body in the sheet began to move.

  ‘She’s still alive!’ I shouted. ‘Dr Raverat must have made a mistake.’

  Oliver put his hand on my arm. Octavia moved again, and when she tried to speak, her voice was muffled by the sheet.

  ‘No, Dominic, this isn’t Octavia. Octavia is dead, you must believe that. When we get her to the church, you’ll see for yourself. Her body is in the grip of that evil place. Leave her and pray for her. Let me pray for her, but don’t let them win.’

  ‘We have to go back there.’

  ‘But not with Octavia. That’s not where she belongs. You know that as well as I do. Let me bury her in the graveyard at St Martin’s. Some of her ancestors are buried there already. She belongs there.’

  And so we sailed past, and once we had left the house behind, the writhing of the thing on the deck became still and I no longer believed she was alive.

  We steered to the little landing at Martindale, and when we had tied up, we lifted her in wet sheets and carried her to the church. Our breath hung on the moonlight like cream, and my eyes were wet with tears. Oliver found a little catafalque in the vestry, and together we laid her in the nave, head towards the altar, surrounded by saints and cherubs. He found a couple of albs, also in the vestry, and we removed the soaking nightdress and sheets, dried her with towels and clothed her in the albs.

  We debated what to do next. I was loathe to leave Octavia here alone in order to sail back to Pooley Bridge, and even the vicarage seemed too far from her. I realized that the funeral would have to be my parents’ decision, and I knew I would soon have to ring them. But that would have to wait until the morning. Oliver brought out some Aladdin heaters, and we sat in front of them. When we had warmed ourselves a little, Oliver suggested we use a pew each to sleep on. I was so tired by then that I made an effort, placing hassocks underneath me for some comfort. It was not the best night’s sleep I have ever had, but it saw me throu
gh to morning.

  We woke up aching and cold. As soon as seemed reasonable, we made our way to Pooley Bridge. Birds huddled in the trees, cold and hungry. The little boat took to the water again, like a silver fish.

  I was reluctant to go past Hallinhag, but Oliver pointed at the house.

  ‘It’s dark again,’ he said. ‘I think we can go by.’

  And so sail on we did, but not without my feeling an intense tightness in my chest and fear running through me like a metal rod that had become red-hot.

  It took us over an hour to get to Howtown, and when we came to the village everything seemed closed and the whole place deserted. We went straight to Jeanie’s cottage, and while she made Oliver welcome, I was never so relieved to be in Rose’s arms again, frost on my eyebrows and ice on my moustache. Then she kissed me, and the ice melted.

  Oliver had wanted to go back home too, but Jeanie forced him to take his coat off and sit in front of the fire facing Rose and me. Once there, he promised to stay for the night. He said he would like to bury Octavia on Sunday, just three days away. He said he wanted his parishioners to be there, and any of the refugee children who were still living locally.

  ‘Most of your relations will be stuck in other parts of the country,’ he said. ‘But I’m anxious about your parents. You should speak to them this evening.’

  Cecil was upstairs, working hard on the letters and other papers. I spoke to him briefly, but we were both much preoccupied, so I left him to it.

  Dr Raverat turned up shivering and took a seat near the fire. He seemed peaky. But the kitchen was warm, and we crammed ourselves in at the table to drink hot barley and bean soup with slices of homemade bread and butter.

  Afterwards, Raverat and I made our way to his house. Rose came with us: she had patients to see to, and we were hardly inside when the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of the first.

  I rang our London number. The operator put me through as usual, but after several clicks and buzzes it remained dead. The operator came back on and said it was probably the fault of the line at Barrow, which had been giving trouble since the snowfall. But I asked her to try the office, and gave her the number. A receptionist answered straight away,

  ‘Lancaster Port Importers. Who do you wish to speak to?’

  ‘This is Dominic Lancaster. I’d like to speak to my father, please.’

  There was a short pause, then she came back.

  ‘I’m going to put you through to his secretary, Miss Williams.’

  ‘If he’s in a meeting, can she pull him out of it? I have important news for him.’

  ‘I’m putting you through to Miss Williams right now.’

  There was a click on the line, then a softer ring. Someone picked up the receiver.

  ‘Pauline Williams. May I help you?’

  I repeated my name and asked to be put through.

  There was a longer pause. When she spoke again, her voice sounded wrong.

  ‘Mr Lancaster, em, are you sitting down?’

  ‘Well, yes. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Are you in London, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m up at Ullswater. We have a house up here.’

  ‘That’s nice, sir, I’m pleased to hear it. Sir, I have some very bad news for you.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said, ‘I was there when she died. I took her to the church, and we’ll try to bury her on Sunday.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Do you mean your mother, sir? Were you in London last night, is that what you mean, sir?’

  ‘Of course not my mother. My sister Octavia. I’m ringing to let my father know what happened.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir. Do you mean your sister was in the flat last night?’

  ‘In the flat?’

  ‘When the bomb fell, sir. Didn’t you know? There was a raid last night, and some parts of Bloomsbury were hit. The block your flat was in took a direct hit. Sir, your parents were at home at the time. They’re both dead, sir, I’m terribly sorry. And you say your sister is dead as well?’

  I put down the phone. Raverat could sense that something was wrong. He came by my side and let me recover. It was not that I loved my father or my mother; but coming so soon on top of Octavia’s death, it seemed too much of a bereavement. They would not be missed, not by me, at least, and probably not by many others, but their deaths brought an era to an end and opened up new possibilities and new responsibilities. I wished Octavia were here with me to share them.

  We went back to Rose’s cottage, where my news was heard with disbelief. Only Rose really knew how much of a weight had been lifted from me. I could be honest with her, but with the others I put on a brave face.

  That night, more snow fell stubbornly like feathers from the wings of swans. Without Octavia, the world seemed empty and quieter. The snow fell and our world was deadened. Moonlight and starlight had left us. There would be little sunshine tomorrow. I wept at times for Octavia, and Rose put her arms around me, but I found no sorrow in me for my parents.

  ‘It’s not over yet,’ I said. Rose nodded.

  ‘Do you think they killed her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The other children. They killed little Jimmy Ashton. I don’t think they can be trusted.’

  The snow fell. We could not bear to keep the curtains shut and we would not extinguish a single lamp. But no planes came over that night. The world was snow and ice and silence.

  Sunday, 12 January

  When I took my last look, snow was falling flake by flake on Octavia’s grave. It had been the very devil to dig in the first place. The sexton and his mate had been forced to burn fires to melt the frozen ground, and they had to go down several inches before reaching loose soil. Mrs Mather, who took the money for the steamers when they were running and served cream teas for the passengers an hour before embarkation, had found a lovely white dress that had belonged to her daughter Matilda, who had died at the same age as Octavia. Rose dressed her in this, and someone found a ring of silk flowers to place across her forehead. Tom Arberry and his son had carved a little coffin for her, and polished it and painted it white.

  The little church was full for the burial service. Oliver read from the Book of Common Prayer, and though I was not touched as a believer, the words sank deeply. He read from Psalm Thirty-nine.

  LORD, let me know mine end, and the number of my days; that I may be certified how long I have to live.

  Behold, thou hast made my days as it were a span long, and mine age is even as nothing in respect of thee . . .

  For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them . . .

  For I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.

  O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence, and be no more seen.

  Throughout the service Rose held my hand. Everyone else I knew was there, Rose’s mother Dr Raverat. Oliver Braithwaite and Cecil, who had moved across to the Lakeside Inn. We had taken a circuitous route to get to the church. Old Jeremiah Timms, who runs a little coach between Pooley Bridge and more far-flung parts like Keswick and Penrith, heard of our predicament and offered us his services free of charge. He said he would drive us down the opposite bank, where the road is much better, and take us just a bit further than Aira Force. After that, we could walk across the lake – which froze over last night – and back on the eastern shore, we could walk to the church. I found the going very hard, but I was determined not to make a fuss. Rose stayed close beside me the whole way and whispered words of encouragement. I thought the ice would break and hurl us into the freezing water, but it did not.

  It was a long journey back, but we were there well before dark. I went with Cecil to his hotel room. Waiting for me was a table full of papers.

  ‘We need to talk, sir,’ he said. ‘But first, I need to give you my condolences, again, on your father’s death. Well . . . I think you know better than most
that he could be a difficult man. He was often a tyrant to work for, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘Not at all. Fire away.’

  ‘But he ran the business well and kept us all employed. Lancaster’s is still the finest port house in London. But now he’s gone, all the employees will be wondering what’s to happen next. Especially given the war and shipping and all that. Is it too early to ask if you have any plans, sir?’

  ‘For the business, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes sir, if you don’t mind my asking, sir.’

  ‘Cecil, stop calling me “sir”. I answer to Dominic still like anybody else. The answer to your question is that I don’t know for sure. Not yet. I’m planning to get married, and I have to count that in. But there’s a very good chance I’ll take on the directorship. It’s a family business, as you know better than anyone, and I think it would be a shame to break with that tradition. So, for the moment, I’ll say it’s very likely.’

  He smiled with satisfaction, but I wasn’t yet prepared to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. I still had things to do. Scores to settle. Ghosts to lay.

  ‘You will need to get to London as soon as possible, sir. Sorry, Dominic. The business will be in trouble if it’s left with no one at the helm.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind, thank you. Now, what else do you have for me?’

  He took me through his research slowly. William had built Hallinhag House, using stone from the quarry in nearby Shap and slate from Stockdalebank Quarry in Longsleddale. And when it was built the ships started to arrive.

  ‘Some sailed as far as Barrow-in-Furness,’ he said, ‘but most docked in London.’

  ‘Bringing port.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Yes and no. Port shipments then were not very large. Sometimes the ships brought slaves from Portugal, slaves from their colonies in Africa and from Macau in China. That trade continued till the eighteen hundreds. The Chinese were all children. Most were sent on to the Americas, until 1761, when the Portuguese banned the slave trade. But in Brazil the trade continued until the 1880s at the rate of sixty thousand slaves a year. I think our children were in close contact with slaves, here or back in Portugal, or both. Here’s a letter from William that mentions them: