Doug followed Julia through the entrance hall into a large and airy kitchen. It was clear that this section of the house was not part of the original. One wall was dominated by a huge range above which hung a large selection of copper pans and containers. Against another wall stood a very large pine dresser cluttered with all of the normal accoutrements of living. Through the large casement windows, he could make out an overgrown garden with a small patch of mown lawn nestling between untamed shrubs.
"Coffee?"
"Yes. With milk. No sugar."
He watched her as she prepared instant coffee in two large mugs. She avoided unnecessary conversation. At first, he had felt awkward but now he was beginning to enjoy the lack of pressure. He used the time to study the room in more detail. The walls were painted but in need of some redecoration. Two large modern canvases hung near the door. They depicted swirls of colour, centred round a core – reminiscent of galaxies he thought. One incorporated colours from the red end of the spectrum whilst the other was bluish in tone. He began to get the feeling that this was her room.
Maybe the pictures were her connection with a different past. There was no sign here of the heavy ornamental furniture he'd seen in other parts of the house and little sign of the precision and order that had been evident there too. This room spoke of muddle and clutter but also perhaps of rebellion against the conformity and order of the old house.
"So what more can I tell you?" she asked, placing the cups on a large knotted pine table which stood in the centre of the room. He paused – on purpose. He didn't want her to take control.
"I want to know more about you."
"Why me?" she replied mockingly. "I'm not part of your story. I wouldn't have invited you here if I thought you wanted to interrogate me."
"I don't want to interrogate you. But you are part of the story, just like the other people who have lived here. This house has a presence. I felt it when I came in. I need to know a little bit more about what it's like to live here."
She had turned away and was looking at the paintings.
"Tell me about those paintings. Are they yours?"
She studied them silently – taking back control.
"Yes, they're mine. I painted them. I was an art student."
"I like them. They remind me of galaxies."
She turned and looked at him approvingly.
"I think they symbolised the big ideas I had at that time. I was going to break out of my little suburban world and spread myself across galaxies – growing, changing, influencing, until eventually I would find my niche at the centre of my chosen galaxy and make my big gesture, the one that would immortalise me."
"And what happened?"
"Oh, you know, stuff – men, marriage, debt, reality, recession – the growing realisation that it wasn't going to happen. I don't want to talk about it. You shouldn't have asked me. You must go."
He could tell she didn't mean it.
"What brought you here – to Penhallam?"
She cupped her mug and looked intently at the murky brownness.
"My husband deals in antiques. That's why we came here. The idea was to use the house as a setting for expensive pieces of period furniture. We were going to bring wealthy buyers down here. My husband planned to fly them in by helicopter. Put them up here. Wine them, dine them – let them live with the antiques for a couple of days. Then get them to sign a big cheque."
YOU ARE READING
The Voice Within
ParanormalA journalist sacked for phone hacking and tired of his decadent life style researches a triple murder that took place in his own ancestral home during the English Civil War. He discovers that events which occurred there nearly four hundred years ago...
