Cecilia shivered. ‘He fell down a shaft in one of the disused quarries up the hill, didn’t he? I wonder if he saw the ghost too before he died.’
She looked at Cassie. ‘What about you? Have you ever seen that Grey Friar?’
Cassie’s heart grew heavy. She looked down and stirred her straw in what was left of her cocktail. ‘I saw something once, but I’m not sure what it was. All I know is that it was very scary.’
As if sensing her reluctance, Salomé glanced at her and shrugged. ‘Well, I for one don’t believe in silly old ghosts, so let’s talk about something else.’
Cassie breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Good idea! Actually I may need some input from you two.’ She told them about the Tarzan and Jane themed wedding she had now promised to arrange for the following Saturday, and both her friends laughed so much they almost spat their drinks out.
‘I think I have just what you need,’ Cecilia said. ‘I just received a flamingo made of recycled flip-flops from a Kenyan artist.’
‘Never mind the fake wildlife… What about Tarzan?’ Salomé asked. ‘You need a man who can look good in trunks, and from what I have seen of Kerry’s fiancé, I don’t think that’s him.’
Cassie pulled a face. ‘You’re right. Finding Tarzan is going to prove difficult.’
‘I can think of a few men who would fill a loincloth nicely,’ Salomé remarked, toying with her cocktail’s paper umbrella, ‘starting with Piers over there.’
‘Mason Austin and Matt Jamieson would do too,’ Cecilia added.
‘I think Stefan Lambert would make the best Tarzan,’ Cassie declared.
‘Oh yes?’ Salomé smirked. ‘And why would that be?’
‘He has the eyes for it,’ Cassie answered in a dreamy voice, ‘tawny like a lion’s, fearless like a warrior’s, but full of shadows and vulnerability.’
Cecilia whistled between her teeth. ‘Wordsworth, eat your heart out.’
Salomé poked Cassie with the tip of her paper umbrella. ‘It looks like this Jane has found her Tarzan.’
‘And this monkey has found her banana,’ Cecilia joked.
Cassie’s face caught fire under her friends’ mocking gaze. ‘Don’t be silly. I was just… Oh, and forget about Tarzan. Help me make a list of the things I need to turn the campsite clubhouse into a jungle instead!’
It was nearly closing time when Cassie parted company with her friends, who lived close to each other and were walking home together.
Still smiling, and a little giddy from the cocktails and the thought of Stefan Lambert clad only in a loincloth swinging from a vine and wrestling a crocodile with his bare hands – Johnny Weissmuller style – Cassie dug her hands inside the pockets of her coat and returned to Bluebell Cottage, taking care not to slip on the pavement covered with icy, compacted snow.
She unlocked her front door, took a few steps in the corridor and froze.
The light was on in the kitchen. But she was sure she had switched it off before leaving. Was her grandfather back from Patterdale Farm?
‘Granddad?’ she called. ‘Are you here?’
Her voice echoed throughout the house but no one answered. What if someone had sneaked in? Red Moss was usually safe, but there had been those burglaries in recent weeks…
The thought sobered her up immediately. Her heart racing, her fingers gripping the strap of her handbag, she took a few hesitant steps, and peered into the kitchen.
It was empty.
Of course, it was empty! What had she expected to see, the ghost of the Grey Friar sitting at the table, having a cup of tea and munching on one of her granddad’s custard creams?
Shaking her head she filled the kettle, opened the cupboard to get a mug and a tea bag. And stepped into a puddle of water… Her heartbeat picked up pace again. Why was the floor wet? Her gaze followed a trail of splashes to the back door.
Then she remembered that she had taken the bin out earlier. The backyard was covered with snow, some must have stuck to her shoes, and it had melted. She relaxed once again. She should calm down and stop imagining things. It wasn’t good for her heart or her blood pressure!
She should have a hot drink and go straight to bed.
She poured hot water into her mug, stirred in some milk and was reaching into the cupboard for a packet of biscuits when something crashed down upstairs, the noise as loud as thunder in the silent house.
She cried out. The biscuits fell to the floor. And she stared at the kitchen ceiling, her heart thumping hard. What had made that noise? What – or who – was up there? Rooted to the spot, she held her breath, but all she could hear now was the clock and her own heartbeat drumming twice as fast.
Seconds ticked by. She slowly released the breath she had been holding and bent down to pick up the biscuits from the floor. She had to do something. She couldn’t stay in the kitchen all night. Should she be brave and go upstairs and check if anyone was hiding up there, or be a coward, go out and ask one of the male neighbours to investigate the source of the noise?
She wasn’t feeling brave at all right now and the second option seemed the most attractive. She retreated back into the corridor, opened the front door … And a ball of ginger fur flew down the stairs with a loud meowing, slid between her legs, almost tripping her over, and ran out into the street.
Doris Pearson’s cat! It must have sneaked in when she took the bin out. What a fool to get so worked up over a cat!
Cassie held her hand to her thumping heart and let out a long sigh.
‘Oh, Fluffy, you naughty, naughty cat!’ she whispered, even though the cat had melted into the shadows. Weak with relief, and her fingers shaking, she closed the door again and locked it.
Saturday didn’t get off to a good start. She slept through her alarm and woke up after nine. In a panic, and her head thumping from drinking too many of Big Jim’s Christmas concoctions, she rolled out of bed, showered and dressed in her usual work attire. As she fumbled with the dungarees’ metallic clasps, she groaned at the thought of the hen party that evening.
Why did Rachel insist on a Bandanamama karaoke? It was bound to be a disaster, they would look ridiculous, and Kerry might not even like their impromptu performance.
Her first job that morning was at Barbara Carlton’s house at the end of the street. She didn’t usually clean Barbara’s house on a Saturday, but she had asked Cassie to swap her days.
‘Come in, love,’ Barbara said as she showed her into her cottage and tottered down the corridor in her slippers.
Cassie put her bag down and took her coat off. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was a bit under the weather this morning, but I’ll make up the time.’ There was no need to explain that Big Jim’s cocktails were to blame.
‘Will you have a cup of tea before you start?’ The elderly lady flicked the switch on the kettle without even waiting for an answer. Cassie had long since understood that the tea and biscuits ritual was for Barbara and her other elderly clients as – if not more – important as cleaning the house.
‘Please.’ Cassie sat down, and looked around, and pointed at the muddy floor and the collection of tools on the worktop. ‘What happened there? Are you having some work done again?’