Today I went to photograph a derelict cottage on the Wiltshire/Berkshire border. Soon this cottage will be renevated but it inspired me last year to write this ghost story.
The window was smeared with rain, winter rain. The type of rain which, if it had more energy would turn to snow, but today, sapped of energy, it remained as rain. Incessant rain.
This would have to be the day when the car broke down in a remote lane miles from anywhere in deepest rural Wiltshire. The last signpost had said something like Shalbourne but not knowing where that was in relation to other towns she knew, it made no difference to Fiona’s sense of desperation and frustration.
‘I’ll just try it one more time’
Nothing, the key was turned and nothing.
‘Agggghh, this car isn’t going anywhere’
Rummaging about in her handbag, she found her mobile phone and started to dial her husband. Hearing nothing she looked at the phone. ‘Call failed’ flashed over the screen. "That’s odd" she thought but looking closer noticed the telltale signs of being in an area of no mobile reception. ‘Oh that’s all I need, now what do I do?’
She took a deep breath and then peered out of the car window, a window obscured with rain, to a landscape of wet ploughed fields and standing water. To her left a small oak copse, the overhead trees dripping raindrops onto her car roof like some form of musical percussion. Ahead and behind her car, only the narrowest of single track lanes she’d driven along after stupidly taking a wrong turning near Hungerford.
For 10 minutes she stared out of the window at the forlorn landscape which now surrounded her, a landscape devoid of life except her; no car passed, not even a farmer heading home to his warm inviting house, probably a wife and children, fire roaring in the grate and a warming cup of tea. "What I’d give to be somewhere warm now drinking a hot cup of tea" she thought. "Well girl, there’s no use sitting here, no knight in shining amour is going to come and rescue me this day, and, as the light is rapidly beginning to fade, I’d better walk to the nearest house and see if I can summon help"
Bleak though the weather looked inside the car, outside it was a lot worse. A low growl of a wind had begun to sway the trees by the car, a wind-borne sound which from a distance reminded Fiona of the low roar one hears when approaching a rough sea with invisible waves crashing on a sandy shore. The wind added to the rain’s bite and as she walked down the lane it was apparent instantly that her shoes were not up to the job. ‘Needs must’ she muttered to herself and, head down, plodded on through the rivulets of water cascading along the lane.
Pulling her coat tighter around her, as she walked Fiona amused herself by recalling the lovely weekend she’d just had with her best friend in Norfolk. She lived near Cley and for four days in the bracing January weather she and her friend had walked along the windswept beaches with the dogs and children in tow, shopping at Burnham Market, and maybe just one too many coffees in local farm shops. Fiona had gone to school with her friend Gail in Salisbury, but then ten years ago Gail had married Peter and upped sticks to Norfolk where Peter made his living as an artist of some renown. They had a perfect life, he was successful in a career cum hobby, she was a devoted mother and wife and they seemed to have it all. Fiona and her husband Colin ostensibly had it all, but they were both career people. He worked for a big multinational that saw him away from home most of the time and Fiona worked for a PR company in London. Rarely did their paths cross these days although recently she’d been allowed to work from home and that had taken some of the commuting strain out of their relationship, one which after 5 years of marriage looked set for failure. Certainly there were no children in her life ‘I’m too busy for that’ Colin would say when Fiona mentioned that they were in their early forties now.
Fiona missed Gail. Unlike friendships made later in life, a friendship from schooldays has a strong and unbreakable bond. So the invite to visit contained in Gail and Peter’s Christmas card was just the impetus she needed. "Pete’s going away to Spain after New Year on a painting trip, I’m at home, come and visit and we’ll have a long girly weekend". At first Fiona thought it’s a long way to go in the winter, but her husband Colin insisted she went ."It will be good to be with Gail, just the two of you" he said. And he was right. They’d laughed and drunk wine and played with the children and slept in the same bed giggling with the dogs in the bed with them. Such a perfect weekend in the middle of winter, but now she was 30 miles from home and walking along a deserted Wiltshire landscape looking for help.
To be honest in any other circumstances the walk along this deserted lane in foul weather would have pleased Fiona. She was an outdoor girl at heart, who somehow had drifted into an indoor job she hated. The feel of the rain on her skin was refreshing while the wind whipped eddies over puddles ahead of her into a series of vibrating mirrors. But she was worried. The light was rapidly beginning to fade and still after 20 minutes in this lane including 10 minutes walking she could see no sign of life, no houses, not even the sound of a distant car. "This is Wilshire" she thought, "I’ve lived in this County all my life but never realised some areas are so rural, where is everyone?" She was just beginning to wonder how much longer it would be before anyone drove along the lane when, as she rounded a corner, there ahead of her a dim light shone like a star through a dark sky of winter trees. It was a good mile away but definitely a light which from this distance seemed to come from what looked like an old thatched cottage set back a few feet from the lane, its porch light dimly lighting the way.
‘At last’ she said, quickening her step. In no time it seemed she found herself at the gate of a lovely old thatched cottage. Herringbone brickwork filled the gaps between stout oak beams; the thatch had seen better days and was deep with moss, making this look more like a woodland shelter for the many animals which presumably made their home in there, rather than a house. Best of all the entire cottage was surrounded by a garden which merged seamlessly into the surrounding woodland. Even in this semi light and snow-whipped driving rain, Fiona stopped at the gate and thought "This is so beautiful, magical in fact, the sort of house I’d love to live in if I could reprioritise my life".
She hesitated for a brief moment before she opened the gate and walked up the flagstone path. As well as the porch light, a room to her left was illuminated. Rather than knocking on the door, Fiona thought best to just check who lives here. She wanted help, but tales of lone women being abducted by strange men were rife in the national press. Silly I know but best to be careful. She need not have worried. Through the window she saw a woman reading in front of a fire. She was probably in her seventies and had a cat curled up next to her by the fire. Fiona noticed the fire, it was bright, strong and most inviting especially when viewed from the ravages of a winter’s day without. She retreated to the porch and knocked on the door, noticing a small sandstone plaque overhead, AD 1790.
‘Ohh hello, my name’s Fiona and my car’s broken down about a mile or so over there’ she said pointing in a vague direction to where she’d walked from. ‘Do you possibly have a telephone I could use to summon help?’
‘Oh my dear girl’ said the woman at the door ‘you look frozen. Come in, come in and warm yourself. This is no day to be outside. I’m afraid though I don’t have a telephone; I live on my own here and have few friends so never saw the point of having it installed after my husband died. I am though expecting a visit from my nephew first thing in the morning; he has a car and can help you I’m sure. You’re welcome to stay the night. Apart from my nephew, I haven’t had a visitor here for weeks so on a night like this I’d welcome some company. I’m sorry I haven’t a phone for you to get help sooner but it’s a long way to the next house at the edge of the village, nearly 4 miles further on’
Fiona tried not to look crestfallen, looking once more at her mobile for salvation: ‘No network coverage’. Had she really found the only house in Wiltshire with no telephone in her hour of need? But on the plus side the lady, who Fiona discovered was called Mrs. Beddoe, looked genuinely happy to have a stranger in her house overnight, she seemed very kind and as by now it was almost dark, Fiona didn’t really have an option.
Mrs. Beddoe showed Fiona into the warm lounge which she’d seen from the outside and although surprisingly her cat left the room quickly.
‘Sit yourself down Fiona’ Mrs. Beddoe said. ‘I’ll pour us a whisky and hot water, that should warm you up nicely.’
Fiona sat in a very comfortable armchair, her legs stretched out towards the blazing fire feeling the warmth return to her body while she sipped her whisky. Mrs Beddoe chatted about her life. She’d been in the military intelligence service just after the war and had travelled across North Africa and Europe helping the allies rebuild a war-ravaged landscape. But all that changed when in her early 50’s she met and married a local farmer at an out of the way place called Wexcombe on the Wiltshire Hampshire border. Sadly he died just a few years after they were married and that is how she came to be at this cottage. It belonged to the farm which passed to her brother-in-law and she had been left it in his will to live in rent free during her lifetime.
‘I’m so glad he did that’ she said ‘otherwise I’d have had nowhere to go. I’m very happy with my books and my cat. We live simply and quietly but it is the woods and landscape that surround the cottage that is my first love now; it is so beautiful in spring when the woods are alive with bird song and carpeted with bluebells. Maybe in the spring you can visit me again and see for yourself’
By now Fiona was feeling almost restored to her former self, and inwardly made a note to take up Mrs. Edward’s kind offer of another visit in May when the bluebells come into flower. Even on a bleak day in January when her mind was on her broken car and getting home, Fiona could tell the landscape was stunning. Mrs Beddoe was a wonderful host and repeated how lovely it was to have a visitor in the house again after so many years without having anyone to talk to. At 8pm she provided a light omelette supper before they both retired to bed well before 10 o’clock.
Fiona lay in her bed in the low ceilinged spare room listening to the storm which had developed outside. The cold rain of the afternoon had now turned to wet snow. The snow wouldn’t settle but as she lay there listening to the howl of the wind through the trees around the cottage she welcomed Mrs Beddoe’s generosity. It was a shame she couldn’t get home that night but she was warm, felt really at home here and she could think of a lot worse places to find shelter in on a day like this. Going to bed this early was unusual for Fiona so she got up and opened the bedroom window curtains; wet snow was sliding down the glass in great gusts as the wind blew in gusts from the east. Getting back into bed she watched the snow fall, letting the forces of nature envelop her as she closed her eyes for the last time.
She woke after a deep sleep to the aroma of cooking downstairs. Mrs Beddoe had obviously been up for a while and was making breakfast. Eggs, bacon, fresh bread and tea. The house felt lived in, it felt warm, and not for the first time during her visit Fiona felt more at home here than in her own home in Salisbury. "What was it?" she wondered as she came down to breakfast "what is it that makes me feel so at home here?" Mrs Beddoe beamed a smile and motioned her to the table. My nephew will be here soon" she said "so eat up quickly and then he’ll help you with your car"
And he did come. Peter, a good looking man in his early forties, with a gentle pleasing manner much like his aunt and instantly Fiona felt drawn to him, as if she’d known him all her life. After the introductions he said he’d drive Fiona to a garage about 6 miles away and they should be able to come out and tow her car back there and she could also contact her husband from there. Colin, she’d forgotten about Colin. He must wonder where she is. How could she have forgotten about her husband so easily?
Hastily Fiona made her goodbyes to Mrs Beddoe and then joined her nephew in his car for the few miles drive to the garage. The snow overnight had settled in the fields but the roads were clear. A small herd of deer, startled by an early car, pranced across a white ploughed field before leaping through a hedge. But the wind and bad weather of yesterday had awoken as a perfect blue-sky winter’s day. As they drove through the countryside the sun’s warmth began to melt the snow on branches which fell in small drifts onto the road. Overhead a red kite glided lazily across the sky.
The garage was just opening as they arrived and with the help of Mrs Beddoe’s nephew, the garage mechanic was told where Fiona’s car could be found before he then made his apologies as he had to get back to his aunt. The mechanic apologised to Fiona that he couldn’t leave the garage for about half an hour, not until the owner arrived to look after the place; but she was welcome to stay and wait. Obviously she had nowhere else to go and so not wishing to delay Mrs Beddoe’s nephew any more she said goodbye and asked him to thank his aunt once again, adding, ‘tell her I will come and visit when the bluebells are out’. As he drove off back down the road to the cottage he cheerily waved out of the driver’s window and was gone, and Fiona felt a pang of having lost something important, but she didn’t know why.
"STOP! STOP STOP!!" shouted Fiona and with a deep lurch the garage recovery truck skidded to a halt on the wet lane. They had been retracing her morning drive along the lane, the same lane she’d walked along the afternoon before. The truck had now stopped outside the cottage which had been her place of refuge last night. Except it wasn’t a cottage now, it was a ruin. The thatched roof had collapsed in on itself, a small oak tree grew out of the hole which had once been the window of the lounge she’d relaxed in, the gate was off its hinges and a huge crack was zigzagging through one of the herringbone brick panels on the wall.
Fiona’s heart was pounding, her mouth was dry. "This can’t be" she thought.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked the mechanic, ‘why have we stopped here?’
For a few moments Fiona couldn’t speak, but then she got out of the recovery truck and ran around to the cottage, as if by running towards the cottage it would be miraculously returned to how she remembered it just an hour ago. The driver, looking worried and confused now, also got out of the truck and came towards her by the porch ‘are you okay?’ he asked.
‘I was here last night’ Fiona said, ‘I slept in this house’
The driver looked baffled. ‘No you must be mistaken; this house has been derelict for over 30 years, maybe it was another house you stayed in further along the lane’
‘No No’ said Fiona, ‘it was this one’ she was feeling hysterical now. ‘I remember the herringbone bricks, the woodland surrounding it and there look above the door in the porch, I remember this plaque AD 1790. I don’t understand how this can be’
‘Come on’ said the driver, we can’t stay here this is a godforsaken place, they say bad things happened here one winter’s night years ago and ever since people hereabouts have avoided the place’.
‘I’m telling you I stayed here last night, how else would I be here standing next to you by a recovery truck heading down here to collect my car? You saw me being dropped off by the nephew of the cottage owner, he was coming back here to collect his mother.’
‘Well I can’t answer that. I’m afraid I didn’t recognize the man you came with and I know most people around here’ he said ‘but I’m telling you this house has been derelict for years, ever since the previous owner was killed in her kitchen’
‘Killed in her kitchen, you mean murder?’
‘Yes’ he said ‘It was long before my time here but when I passed this cottage for the first time I said to someone it would be a lovely place to restore and live in as it is in an idyllic spot, but they warned me off with the story of what had happened here. If I can remember the poor woman who was murdered lived alone. Her husband had died some time before. I think she was called Mrs Beddoe’.
Fiona shot him a look of horror. He went on.
‘Apparently it was stormy night and some say the old lady had a visit from a woman who it was thought was the wife of the woman’s nephew. Apparently the young couple had rowed as she was leaving her husband having met someone over East Anglia way I think. This nephew was a bad lot by all accounts and his temper had flared up and he had attacked his wife so she fled their house in Salisbury and the police believe she was on her way to her new lover. But for some reason she stopped at the cottage. Why this was is a mystery, some say it was to warn the old lady she was leaving her nephew, others that she was frightened about what he would do next having already attacked her. But whatever the reason, the old lady put her niece-in-law up for the night, but in the morning the husband arrived at breakfast time and in the ensuing row he’d killed his mother in the kitchen before driving off with his wife. The police never did find the couple, where they went remained a mystery for months, but 18 months later, in springtime a car belonging to the couple was found in a woodland lane, not far from here, a very remote spot few people ever drive along, near a small clump of oak trees. In the boot of the car, the police discovered the remains of a young man who had died they believe from a single blow to the head with a heavy blunt instrument, something like a car jack. They think he’d been dead just a few days as by his body lay a small bunch of bluebells tied with a red ribbon, the bluebells in the woods were still in flower at the time.
‘I always remember that strange fact, that the killer left bluebells on the body’ he said, ‘such a strange thing to do.’ He went on, ‘ever since then no one has come near to the house so it slowly fell into disrepair, which is sad as it would make such a lovely family home’.
Fiona had tears in her eyes now; she was confused and not a little frightened. That story, her night in the cottage, the bluebells, she didn’t know what to say. The mechanic taking her silence and tears as shock on hearing the story put a comforting arm around her shoulders and led her down the garden path towards the truck.
Come on, this is no place to stay and linger’ he said ‘it’s got an air of sad melancholy about it, come on , let’s go, before adding ‘Hop in; our car is just around the corner, beside a small clump of old oak trees I believe’
Fiona only half registered these last words; "our car" surely he meant ‘my’ car? She must have misheard him; her mind was playing tricks now. Yes that must be it. So full was her head of the tale, the ruined cottage and the old lady she wasn’t thinking straight, she just wanted this nightmare to end and get home to her husband
So full was her mind, so preoccupied was she with these facts all tumbling around in her head that as she reached the truck to began to climb in, the words of the mechanic didn't fully register. " a bad business that, but time to get you sorted, call me Peter by the way, I'm Peter Beddoe".
Excellent story and very atmospheric. Julie x
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