‘Good, plenty of bats if you come at dusk. Some people find them disturbing. Rita doesn’t like them. Something to do with her mother being frightened by one when she was expecting. Not sure I believe it, but Rita’s not a person to make things up. She’ll look after you, and Carrie too. They look after me even though I’m a grumpy old so and so. You’ll be all right with those two around.’
He tipped his hat and set off down the lawn back towards the house and Jules smiled. The irascible old man who Carrie had described when she first came to the island certainly seemed to have mellowed in the last three months. Underneath that gruff exterior, Jules sensed there was a very kind heart.
‘You sure you’ll be okay?’ Carrie asked later.
‘Absolutely,’ Jules replied. ‘As long as those ghosts you mentioned don’t make an appearance and things don’t start flying through the air.’
‘If there are ghosts,’ Carrie said, ‘they’re very benign. Definitely not poltergeists. I think the spirits here want the best for the house and everyone who visits.’
‘Hmm,’ Jules replied.
‘I know you’re a sceptic, so I don’t know why you’re worried.’
‘I wouldn’t be normally. I suppose I’m just a bit on edge.’
‘And that’s perfectly understandable,’ Carrie soothed.
‘You’ve got to admit,’ Jules said, glancing all around the room, ‘it’s a bit creepy to think of some entities wafting around the house while you’re asleep and whatever you say, you werespooked by that blanket being moved when you first stayed here. Then when you lost your ring and found the little box under the floorboards containing the teething ring and the baby’s bonnet and?—’
‘And the little auburn curl in an envelope with the name Philly on it in the most beautiful copperplate writing,’ Carrie added.
‘You said it was as if someone tried to push you away, to stop you taking up the floor and discovering what lay beneath it.’
‘I admit it was a bit strange.’
‘Don’t you mean scary?’
‘Maybe a little. I’ll stay and make sure they don’t disturb you.’
Jules felt an unexpected flood of relief. How ridiculous. She wasn’t afraid of ghosts. She didn’t even believe in ghosts. She’d spent years waiting for her father to make an appearance or even send her a sign and she hadn’t felt his presence once.
‘You’re trying too hard,’ her mother had said.
‘Of course I’m trying,’ she’d yelled. ‘I want to believe that he’s there, just the other side of some great divide, that he’s watching over me, protecting me, loving me, but he’s not, is he? He’s dead, buried in the ground, gone for good, and there isn’t anything else.’
She’d stormed off, up to her room, and slammed the door so hard a little Beswick china dog had fallen from her shelves and smashed on the wooden floor. She had knelt amongst the pieces and wept, shaking her mother away when she’d come to comfort her. Now, she turned to Carrie with conviction.
‘I’m being completely fanciful. You know I don’t believe in all that stuff. I’ll be fine. You go back to your beloved.’
Carrie looked doubtful.
‘Go on,’ Jules said with as much of a smile as she could muster. ‘It will be good for me to have some time on my own and I’m really tired. Everything must be catching up with me. I’mgoing to get myself a simple supper, watch some TV and go to bed early so that I’m ready for tomorrow.’
‘And you’ll call if you want anything?’
Jules nodded, trying to usher Carrie towards the door without looking too much as if she wanted to get rid of her. Carrie’s shoulders visibly dropped. She seemed appeased.
After she had gone, Jules made herself a cheese and tomato sandwich and took it out into the garden. There was a cool breeze rustling the branches of the willow tree. Tomorrow the weather might change. She’d thought that once Carrie had gone, she’d sit down and have a good cry, but surprisingly enough the urge passed. Was Carrie right? Was she mourning the life she’d thought she was going to have with Gavin as much as their time together? She’d certainly done her best to dream of living in the house he was doing up, having children there, growing old together in some pink-hazed utopia. She’d really got ahead of herself, hadn’t she? She stood up and stretched, walked around the garden, looked for Tasha, but was disappointed when there wasn’t any sign of her.
Instead, she saw Rita in the distance and waved before turning with indecent haste to retreat inside.
She ran a bath, pouring in some essential oil, swirling it through the warm water so the small bathroom was filled with the scent of patchouli. Afterwards she found a programme to watch about going on a pilgrimage, which was surprisingly soothing. Tomorrow she was going to be surrounded by strangers and she felt irrationally nervous about it. At work she was surrounded by people all the time and she loved it. What had happened to her? And the thought of actually having to make something, to mould a lump of clay into a presentable offering made her feel all clammy. Her brain was barely able to decide whether to drink tea or coffee or to spread her breakfasttoast with marmalade or strawberry jam, let alone create a mug or pot.
‘It doesn’t matter if you make a fool of yourself,’ she murmured. ‘There will be other people there who have never thrown a pot before. If you don’t get it right first time, it’s okay and Carrie won’t judge, and you’ll never have to see any of those other people ever again.’
She took herself to bed and snuggled down. The wind rattled at the window. Maybe there was a storm coming. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to get to The Pottery after all. Perhaps the road would be flooded, or a tree would come down, and she could just stay here curled up, eyes closed until she felt better.
TRUST
