Dead children.
Generations of little boys, their shouts and laughter still echoing in the roof timbers of the house.
‘Lyn!’ Joss threw her arms round her sister and hugged her. ‘I’m so sorry about the car.’
Lyn smiled. ‘All forgotten. You were obviously under stress.’ She looked round as she dropped her bags on the floor. ‘So, where is the latest little Grant?’
‘Upstairs. They’re both asleep. Oh Lyn, I don’t know how we would ever manage without you!’
‘You can’t. It’s as simple as that.’ Lyn looked at her for a moment before turning away and heading towards the door. ‘So, are you going to show me?’
They stood for several minutes by the crib, staring down at the sleeping baby. Gently Lyn reached in and touched the little hands. Her face softened. ‘He’s gorgeous. You haven’t asked me about Mum.’ She was still concentrating on the baby.
‘Luke told me. It’s not malignant.’
‘You might have rung her!’ Lyn looked up at last. ‘You might have told her about the baby!’
‘Lyn, I couldn’t!’ Stung, Joss spoke more loudly than she intended and the baby stirred. ‘The phones have been out of order since the storm. Luke must have told you. That was why we were stuck here on our own, for God’s sake!’
She stooped as Ned let out a wail of anguish and she scooped him out of the cot.
‘OK. I’m sorry. Of course you couldn’t. Here, let me hold him.’ Lyn reached out her arms. ‘But ring as soon as you can, Joss. It would mean so much to her. He is her grandson, remember.’ She said it with a note of defiance in her voice.
Joss frowned. Laura’s grandson. A son of Belheddon.
‘Of course.’
Joss woke at the first sound of a whimper from Ned. She lay for a moment in the darkness staring towards the window where the garden was as bright as day in the moonlight. In the silence she heard the sharp yip yip of a little owl and again Ned gave a little cry. Sitting up, trying not to disturb Luke, she pushed her feet over the side of the bed and reached for her cotton bathrobe. The room was cold. Too cold. She glanced round with a shiver. Was he there, lurking in the shadows, Tom’s tin man? The man without a heart. The alien intruder. The devil of Belheddon.
The moonlight was flooding the small basket bed as she crept over to it and stared in. Ned’s face, turned away from the brightness, was alert. He appeared to see her at once, and she saw a small fist appear from beneath the swaddling, waving in the air. She stood looking down at him, overwhelmed by such a flood of love and emotion that she was incapable for a moment of doing anything. Then at last she picked him up; kissing him she carried him to the seat by the window. Before she sat down she stood for a moment staring out into the garden. The central casement between the mullions was open a crack. She pushed it slightly, surprised to find that the sweet night air which flooded in was considerably warmer than the air in the bedroom. For a moment the balmy beauty of the night overwhelmed her. Then the distracted crying of the baby in her arms brought her back to the present. Pushing her night shirt off her shoulders she put the baby to her breast still staring into the distance towards the lake. A cloud shadow drifted across the grass. She frowned. The night was very silent. She stood there for several minutes, lulled by the gentle rhythmic sucking of the baby, conscious of the gentle snores of her husband in the bed behind her then, tired, she lowered herself at last into the chair. It was as she was preparing to move the baby to the other breast that she heard the nightingale. Entranced she stared up at the window. The pure notes poured on and on, coming she supposed from the woods behind the church. The sound filled the room. Standing up again she walked back to the window and looked out. Two children were playing in the moonlight near the lake. She stiffened. ‘Georgie? Sammy?’
Sensing the change in her mood at once Ned stopped sucking and turned his head away, screwing up his little face to cry. Her mouth had gone dry. ‘Sammy?’ she breathed the name again. ‘Sammy?’
‘Joss?’ Luke stirred and turned towards her. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Everything is fine.’ Shushing the child she rocked him against her gently, realising suddenly that the nightingale had stopped singing. And the figures in the moonlit shadows had disappeared.
‘Come back to bed.’
‘I’m coming. As soon as he’s asleep again.’
Tucking Ned back into his little crib at last, Joss straightened wearily and stretched her arms. She could hear the nightingale again now, more distant, echoing in the silence of the garden. ‘Can you hear it?’ she whispered to Luke. ‘Isn’t it beautiful.’
There was no answer.
Turning she stared at the bed. Luke’s face lay in shadow, the heavy drapes of the bed curtains half pulled across by his head as though warding off the moonlight. With a smile she turned back to the window. On the sill, silver in the moonlight, lay a white rose.
She stared at it for several seconds, feeling the scream mounting in her throat. No. She must be imagining it. It wasn’t there. It could not be real! Taking a deep breath she shut her eyes, her fists clenched, and counted slowly to ten, hearing the clear liquid notes of bird song louder and louder in her brain. Then at last she opened them again and stared down at the stone sill.
The rose had gone.
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