‘Sounds like you need to go,’ Ben said, and he grasped Bess’s collar and guided her out the back door. ‘I’ll clear this up in a second, after I’ve helped you out with the pushchair.’
Grace hurried down the corridor to Millie, her face ablaze with embarrassment. Ben was right behind her. He opened the front door, and helped Grace carry the pushchair down the step. When he’d finished he knelt down and smiled at Millie, stroking her cheek briefly with one hand. At his touch, Millie quietened, eventually giving him a shy smile in return. Grace watched them both in astonishment.
He straightened up as he said, ‘So, how soon do you want me to start? I could probably knock down the kitchen wall before Christmas, if you like?’
‘Really?’ To Grace, the task looked onerous, yet he talked about it as though it would be simple.
‘Can I come round in the morning and take another look at it? Check it’s not a bigger job than I think it is. But, yes, I reckon it’s manageable, if you’re prepared to live upstairs for a few days.’
Grace thought about it for a moment. This was decision time. Her last chance to run away, before she made a proper start on things – before she got other people involved, and so had to see it through. Then she felt the courage she had been cultivating for the last year rising firmly above her fear, and she smiled at Ben and said, both to him and to herself, ‘Right, then. Let’s get on with it.’
That night, after Millie was safely tucked up in bed, Grace carried one of the boxes from the attic down the stairs, set it in the middle of the lounge, and kneeled on the floor in front of it. Opening the lid, she began plucking a few things from the top at random.
Out came clothes. Old-style blouses, a couple of dresses, a christening gown.
To begin with she handled things carefully, one at a time, but after a while she stood up, heaved the box onto its side and then over, spilling all the contents onto the floor. Then she picked through the mound in front of her, examining each item before putting everything except the christening gown back into the box they had come from. After she had finished, she found a pen in her bag and wrote ‘Charity’ on the lid.
One down – in half an hour. Why had she avoided this for so long? she asked herself, and went to get the next box.
This one contained books. She pulled out the top layer until she could heft the box over again, and then tipped it upside down, searching through, glancing at titles and authors. There weren’t many names she recognised, and they all looked dated. Besides, she didn’t need any extra reading when there was a bookshelf of classics upstairs. She put one or two aside, and began to pile the rest back into the box.
When she had finished, she moved to the little alcove set into the lounge wall, where, in addition to a small glass duck and sprigs of dried heather, there was another row of books: crossword dictionaries, field guides for bird-watching, and a few gardening encyclopedias. They all went into the box with the others.
She paused as she came across a slim hardback covered by a dull grey dust jacket with raggedy edges, a black and white picture on the front of it. She read the title: Ghosts of the Moors. The photograph featured a tall stone cross in the foreground and a shadowy stone bridge visible in the distance, across a strip of moorland. The photo looked like it had been taken in twilight, so that the bridge was dimly lit, the low-lying hills behind it little more than shadows.
She opened the book and began to read the introduction:
The North Yorkshire moors. A place of many souls: those unborn, those departed, and the few who dwell in the scattered villages and wander the old monks’ paths. People come and go, their lives ebbing and flowing like the river that cleaves its way through the valley. Yet, beneath their feet, the moors themselves are timeless – soaked in the love, grief, happiness and despair that saturates the air and weeps down past the heather into the thickly layered earth. This place is one that ghosts wander to and through, since the untended, patient land embraces both the living and the dead, as the seasons spin perpetual circles within time’s sticky web …
Grace shuddered, and turned the page, thumbing through the rest at random. It was full of short chapters, with titles like ‘The hob on the hill’, ‘The witches’ knoll’, and ‘The knights of Freeborough’. Towards the back, she came across ‘The barghest’. She read the first few sentences: A fearsome hound with razor-sharp teeth and claws. Seen shortly before the death of a local.
She remembered the dream she’d had on her first night back. She could vividly picture that contorted face, smell its hot, meaty, panting breath. The death of a local. Grace hastily closed the book and put it inside the charity box. She would be rid of that one as soon as possible.