Chelsea Mansions

FORTY-TWO

B rock ducked his head through the low doorway of the old pub, steadying the tray of drinks in his hands. Across the dappled lawn, in the shade of a large oak tree, he saw the three of them around a table, heads together, discussing a photograph. They had met at one of Suzanne and Brock’s favourite country pubs on the way to Battle, and Brock paused for a moment in the sun and took a deep breath, thinking what an enormous relief it was to be out of London, like escaping from an airless room.

Suzanne was making a great fuss of John, teasing information out of him, gauging his temperament, clearly enjoying his company. Yes, within ten minutes she’d decided that she genuinely liked him, Brock realised, and it made him aware that he hadn’t even reached that stage yet. With anyone else he would have formed his assessment long ago, but with John he was lost, the burden of old memories too great.

He had at least made his apologies to the lad, for the Crabb business, and most of all for doubting his judgement about the authenticity of the letter. He felt ashamed of himself, remembering how he would have felt if his father had dismissed him like that.

Watching them now, laughing easily together, John’s hand on Kathy’s arm, Brock thought how open and exuberant he looked. It seems, he thought, that I have things to learn from this young man.

Suzanne turned her head and saw him standing there and gave him a smile and a wave. He set off across the grass towards them.

It was that night I heard the ghost in the chimney. I was tucked up in the old-fashioned hotel bed, so high off the floor, unable to sleep. On the small table beside my pillow was the present that Uncle Gennady had given me, his war medal, the most precious thing he owned, he had said. I thought how strange it was that he had given it to me, and with a tear in his eye, but Pop had just smiled when I asked him, and said that he was a Russian, a very emotional race, given to spontaneous, generous actions. I was thinking about this when I heard the sound, a strange, distant cry, almost inaudible. It came again, a little louder and more urgent, and it seemed to me that it came from the direction of the fireplace. I got out of bed and made my way towards it. I knelt down and bent my head toward the grate and felt a breath of cool air brush against my cheek. And then I heard it again, a scream of agony, echoing down the chimney from far, far away. I gasped and rocked back on my heels, terrified. All around me the room was dark and still. I jumped to my feet and ran back to bed and buried myself under the blankets. It was a cat, I told myself, up on the roof, yowling at the moon. The next morning at breakfast I asked Daphne, the owner of the hotel, about the cries from the chimney. She seemed quite alarmed that I had heard them, and then explained that a ghost haunted Chelsea Mansions. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but this was England, and things were different. Everyone seemed very subdued that morning. The happy mood of the previous day had vanished, as if the ghost had sent a chill through all our lives.