Contents

page

Introduction V

Room 7 1

Mrs Wood Comes Home 6

A Ghost in the Garden 11

Roger Wingate’s New Car 18

A Friend of the Family 26

A Birthday Card for Mrs Rogers 35

Activities 40

R o o m 7

Perhaps you d o n ’t believe in ghosts. I’m no t sure that I believe inthem . I’m no t sure that I saw a ghost that night. B ut if I d idn’t seea ghost, w hat did I see?

I was re tu rn ing from a business trip to the no rth . I lived near London then . It was w in te r. T h e roads were covered w ith ice, and I had to drive slowly and carefully I was still a long way from hom e w hen it got dark. T h en m y car lights began to fail. It was too dangerous to stay on the m ain road. I tu rned o ff in to a quiet country road.

After a few kilometres I saw a road sign — M illham. Five m inutes later 1 was driving along a narrow street. T here were a few shops w ith bright lights, and I could see a garage at the end o f the street. I stopped there and explained my p rob lem . T h e man looked at my car lights.

‘I’ll repair them in the m orn ing ,’ he said.'Is there a ho tel in M illham ?’ I asked.‘T h e re ’s The Goat at the top o f the street,’ lie said. ‘We d o n ’t

have m any visitors in M illham in the w inter. Tell M r R ichards I sent you. H e ’ll look after you.’

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I thanked him and took m y suitcase ou t o f the car. T hen I walked back up the street to The Goat. It was an old building. T he hotel office was just inside the front door. A big m an came through ano ther door at the back o f the office and smiled at me in a friendly way.

‘M r R ichards?’ I asked.‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘C an I help you?’I explained that my car was at the garage.‘I need a meal and a

room for the night,’ I said.‘T he meal isn’t a problem ,’ he said .‘D inner will be ready in an

hour. B ut this is a small hotel. W e’ve only got six bedroom s, and they’re all full.’

T h e do o r opened again, and a little w om an walked quickly into the room .

‘This is m y wife,’ R ichards explained. H e tu rn ed to her and said,‘I was telling our visitor that w e’re full ton ight, Liz. His car’s at the garage, and he wants d inner and a bed for the night.’

‘T h ere ’s R o o m 7, Tom,’ she said.‘B ut we d o n ’t . . . ’ he began.‘We can’t send him away on a n ight like this,’ his w ife said.‘I’ll

make the bed in R o o m 7.’‘I’m giving you trouble, I’m afraid,’ I said.‘It’s no trouble, M r . . . ?’‘Saunders,’ I said .‘I’m John Saunders.’‘It’s no trouble, M r Saunders. We d o n ’t use R o o m 7 m uch.

T here’s no th ing w rong w ith it.’ She gave her husband a look w hen she said that. H e d idn’t reply.

R o o m 7 was on the top floor, above the o ther bedroom s. It felt quite cold, bu t there was an electric fire.

‘It will soon get warm ,’ I th o u g h t.‘A nd it’s beautifully quiet up here. I’ll sleep well tonight.’

It wasn’t a big room . T here was a bed, a cupboard, and a washbasin beh ind the door. B etw een the washbasin and the

cupboard was a big, straight-backed chair.I washed, and then w ent dow n to dinner. I enjoyed my meal

and then I w en t to the bar. I talked to R ichards and some o f his friends until I began to feel sleepy.

‘I th ink I’ll go up to bed now,’ I said.‘G oodnight, then, M r Saunders,’ R ichards said. ‘I hope you’ll

be com fortable. Sleep well!’

♦

1 d o n ’t know how long I slept. Som ething w oke me. It wasn’t a noise. T h e bedroom was quiet, bu t som ething strange was happening. T h e light on my bedside table wasn’t on, bu t part o f the room was slowly becom ing light. My bed was in the dark. I couldn’t see the cupboard or the washbasin, bu t I could see the big chair. I could see its seat, its arms, its legs and its tall, straight back. It was shining at m e ou t of the dark.

I closed my eyes tightly. I d id n ’t feel afraid. N o t then. Fear came later. N o, I wasn’t afraid; bu t I w anted to th ink and to shut out that strange light.

‘I dream t it!’ I th o u g h t.‘O f course! I drank too m uch in the bar after d inner and I was dream ing.’

I decided to count slowly up to fifty and then to open my eyes again.

‘Forty, fo rty -one . . . ’ I was counting the num bers very slowly w hen I heard it. Som ebody was breathing in the room . This was no t a dream . A thief, perhaps?

I opened m y eyes. N ow a m an was sitting in the chair. H e was old, and he had w hite hair, bu t he was sitting up straight. His brigh t eyes w ere looking at me.

I tried to speak, but 110 words came. I w anted to say, ‘W ho are you? W hat are you doing here?’ But I cou ldn’t. I told m yself no t to be afraid. H e was too old to h u rt me. But his eyes were frightening. T hey never moved.

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He lifted his left hand and po in ted his finger at m e. N o w his eyes were very sad, and suddenly I w asn’t afraid o f him . W hen he spoke, his voice was tired.

‘I never knew,’ he said. ‘B u t you do.’His hand dropped. Suddenly, I could speak. ‘W h at do I know ?’

I asked. ‘W h o are you? W hat. . . ?’ Before I could com plete the question, he — and the light — disappeared.

A voice w oke me. ‘H ere’s a cup o f tea, M r Saunders. Your breakfast w ill be ready in half an hour.’ R ichards p u t the tea on my bedside table and w ent ou t quickly.

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I th ough t about my strange visitor. D id I dream it all? I decided no t to w orry M r and M rs Richards w ith a m ystery that they co u ld n ’t solve.

I had my breakfast. T h en I w en t in to the hotel office to pay my bill. Mrs R ichards was sitting at the desk.

She smiled and gave m e the b ill. ‘D id you sleep well?’1 looked up to answer her. I saw a picture on the wall beh ind

her. T h e w hite hair, the strong face and the b rig h t eyes were terribly fam iliar to me.

I po in ted at the p ic tu re .‘W h o ’s that?’ 1 asked.She looked at the picture and tu rned back quickly. ‘It’s T om ’s

father. H e lived w ith us here at The Goat. H e died five years ago in the room that you slept in last night. T h a t’s w hy Tom didn’t w ant you to have R o o m 7.’

‘B ut you. . . ’ I stopped. She was speaking again.‘T here were some silly stories about R o o m 7, M r Saunders,’

she said.‘O ne or tw o nervous visitors though t that the room was haunted. A ghost isn’t good for a hotel, so Tom ’s father decided to sleep there. H e d idn’t believe in ghosts. So he w ent up to bed at his usual tim e, but

‘Yes?’ I said.‘W hat happened?.’‘I took tea up for h im the next m orning,’ she said.‘A nd I found

him in that big chair — cold and dead. O f course, he was an old m an. His heart ju st failed suddenly.’

I picked up my case. ‘Mrs R ichards . . . ’ I said.She w asn’t listening to me. She smiled and said, ‘So we never

discovered the mystery o f R o o m 7. And I d o n ’t believe that anybody will. I t’s just a silly story.’

I paid the bill, said goodbye and walked quickly dow n the street towards the garage. T h e voice o f an old m an seem ed to follow me. ‘I never knew,’ it said. ‘Was R o o m 7 haunted? I never knew. B u t you do.You know now, d o n ’t you?’

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Mrs W ood C om es H om e

I always w en t to Porchester for my holidays. It’s a qu iet little tow n, full o f interesting old buildings, and I was studying its history.

I’m no t a rich man and I can’t stay in hotels, bu t Jack T hom pson invited m e to stay in his pretty little house in Fore Street. He and I were at school together. I had som e very happy times w ith h im and his wife, A nnie, until. . . until M rs W ood came hom e.

T hat year, I w ent to Porchester as usual. It was a fine spring afternoon w hen I arrived. We w ent for a walk and I took photographs o f the church. T h a t n ight after supper, we sat talking by the fireside.

‘Tell m e all the news,’ I said.Jack sm iled .‘Life moves very slowly here, Bill,’ he sa id .‘W e’ve

got a new docto r — D r W arren — if that interests you.’‘Everything about Porchester interests me,’ I said. ‘Tell me

more.’‘Mrs W ood has gone away,’A nnie said.‘Mrs W ood?’ I said.‘W here did she live?’A nnie smiled at me. ‘In the house across the street. T h e one

w ith the big tree in front o f the w indow s. She’s very old. She d idn’t go ou t very m uch because she can’t walk very well.’

‘I often th ough t that som ebody was looking ou t o f an upstairs window,’ I said.‘But the tree covers part o f it.’

‘Mrs W ood spent m ost o f her tim e looking ou t o f that window.’Jack spoke angrily, and I was surprised.

‘She was lonely, Jack,’ Annie sa id .‘She liked to watch people. She w anted to know w hat was happening outside.’

‘She was lonely because she was rude to people,’ said Jack. ‘She

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was very rude to you. R em em ber?’‘We agreed no t to talk about that again,’ said Annie. ‘Just before

Christm as, Bill, she w ent to stay w ith her son in Australia. I always felt sorry for her.’

‘I feel sorry for her son,’ Jack said. ‘It w o n ’t be very nice for him w ith that old w om an in his house. B ut I hope she stays w ith him for ever. I d o n ’t w ant her back here.’

I could see that they w ere b o th becom ing angry. I was surprised. B ut I asked about the new doctor, and w e d idn’t talk about M rs W ood again.

I w ent to bed quite early, bu t I cou ldn’t sleep. I was th inking about Jack and Annie. W hy were they so angry about M rs Wood? Annie was, I thought, as angry as Jack. B ut she was try ing to hide her feelings.

I got ou t o f bed, w ent to the w indow and looked across the street at M rs W ood’s house. T h e m oon was shining brightly and I could see the front o f the house clearly. T h e leaves of the big tree m oved slowly in the w ind.

T here w ere curtains at the w indow s. T h e house d idn’t look em pty. ‘Are you still there, M rs W ood?’ I thought.

T hen I saw the curtain at one o f the upstairs w indow s move. Mrs W ood was w atching me!

I tu rned away from the w indow and ju m p ed into bed. I lay there in the dark and felt very, very frightened.

Slowly, I grew calm er. ‘You w ere w rong!’ I said to m yself. ‘You only thought that curtain m oved. T h e w ind pushed the leaves across the w indow. And if M rs W ood is there, she can’t h u rt you. She’s a lonely old w om an. You’re a strong, healthy m an. W hat are you afraid of? But she’s no t in her house. She’s in Australia, w ith her son.’

I felt b e tter then, bu t I d idn ’t sleep for a long time. A nd in my dreams I was trying to escape from a strange, dark house. An old wom an was w atching me.

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I felt tired and unhappy w h en I w oke up the nex t m orning. M y holiday was starting badly. I washed and dressed. T h en I opened m y bedroom window . I took a pho tograph o f M rs W ood’s house before I w ent downstairs.

Jack was alone in the kitchen. ‘W h a t’s the m atter?’ he asked. ‘You look tired.’

‘I d idn ’t sleep very well.’‘Annie had bad dreams, too,’ he said. ‘She’s staying in bed. She

was dream ing about that old w om an w ho lived across the road.' We d id n ’t talk m uch w hile w e ate.After breakfast, I said , ‘W hy did you get angry last n igh t w hen

you were talking about M rs W ood?’‘Annie tried to help her,’ he said slowly. ‘She w en t shopping for

her, and often cooked for her. She sat and talked to her. O r she sat and listened to her. T he old w om an prefers to talk, no t listen.’

‘D id you go across there w ith A nnie?’ I asked.‘No,’ he said. ‘I never liked her. O ne day A nnie came back,

looking tired and ill. I asked h er w hat was w rong. M rs W ood was very rude to her, and frightened h er. . . A nnie never w en t there again. She co u ld n ’t forget . . . ’

Jack’s story w asn’t very clear, bu t I understood the general m eaning. T h e old w om an knew that Jack d idn’t like her. Jack is a good, k ind m an, but she hated him . She d idn’t listen to Annie. ‘You’re as bad as your husband,’ she shouted at her. ‘I’ll get you both ou t o f your house.’

I w aited until Jack finished speaking. T hen I said, ‘M rs W ood is a terrible old w om an, but she can ’t h u rt you. W hy d o n ’t you just forget about her?’

Jack looked at m e .‘W hy d idn ’t you sleep last n igh t?’

♦

I d idn’t enjoy m y holiday. Jack and A nnie were k ind to me, bu t at n ight they d id n ’t sit talking by the fireside. T hey stood and looked

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through their front w indow at M rs W ood’s house. A nd each night, from my bedroom , I th o ugh t I saw her face at her window. I was glad w h en m y holiday finished. N ow I could escape from Porchester.

A few days after I got hom e, the postm an delivered m y holiday photographs. Usually, I enjoyed looking at them . But this tim e I was afraid to open the packet.

A t last I opened it. Slowly, I searched through the photographs. T hen 1 found the one that I feared to see.

There it was — the pho tograph o f M rs W ood’s house. I felt sick. Everything was clear and b righ t — the garden, the tree, the front door. And, at an upstairs w indow , an old w om an’s face was looking th rough the glass!

I was holding the photograph w hen the door o f m y Hat Hew open. Jack ran into the room . 1 tried to hide the photograph, but he pulled it o u t o f my hand.

‘T here she is,’ he said.‘T hat. . . th ing . . . is M rs W ood.’‘But, Jack, th a t’s no t possible. She’s a long way away ... ’H e stopped me. I shall never forget his words or the terrible

look on his face as he spoke.‘M rs W ood died in Australia on your first day in Porchester,’ he

said. ‘We heard the news after you left.’‘B ut how do you explain. . . ?’ I po in ted to the photograph.‘I can’t,’ he said .‘I only know that . . . she came hom e.’A new fear came over me. ‘A nnie!’ I shouted. Jack, how is

Annie? D oes she know that Mrs W ood came hom e?’H e looked old and ill. I th ough t that he was going to fall. I put

my hand on his arm and guided him to a chair. A t last he spoke, but his voice was weak.

‘Last n igh t there was a knock at our door,’ he said. ‘A nnie w ent to open it. I was in the k itchen, bu t I could hear her voice. I shall never forget h er cry. “M rs W ood,” she said. “Y ou’ve com e hom e!” I ran to the door. A nnie lay there — dead. She died o f fear.’

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A G host in the Garden

I w orked hard in the city all m y life. T hen , w hen I was sixty years old, I decided to stop. 1 w anted to live in the country, w ith a big garden w here I could grow flowers and vegetables. M y wife agreed. She was bo rn in the co u n try and w anted a quiet life. So we started to look for a house.

We travelled a long way to look at houses. W h en we saw a For Sale sign, we stopped. B ut none o f the buildings pleased us. We searched for m onths and becam e very tired.

At last, we found the house o f our dreams. In a small village, about eighty kilom etres from the city, we discovered Samways. N obody was living there, and it was just right for us. It was built o f stone. It was w arm , sunny and com fortable. B etw een the front o f the house and the quiet village street was a little garden. At the back there was a bigger garden, full o f fruit trees and flowers.

We m oved in to Samways in the late spring. It was an old house and it needed a lot o f w ork. W e bough t tables, chairs, cupboards and beds. We had to get curtains, too. We were careful that everything looked nice. This was o u r hom e now, for the rest o f o u r lives.

T he garden was w ild w hen we arrived. B ut we w orked hard, and by the end o f August, o u r garden was almost as beautiful as ou r house.

O n e afternoon in Septem ber, I was w orking alone in the garden. M y wife was in the house, m aking som e tea. I heard her calling to m e through the open w indow o f the living-room . ‘Henry,’ she called. ‘Tea’s ready and w e’ve got a visitor. Father Barnes has com e to see us.’

Father Barnes was the village priest. This was his first visit to ou r house.

‘I ’m glad that you ’ve come,’ I said.‘It’s a beautiful old house,’ the priest answered.‘Everybody in

the village is pleased that you ’re living here. You’re m aking a wonderful difference to the house and garden.’

‘T hank you,’ I said.‘W hen w e’ve had tea, you m ust have a look at the big garden at the back.’

‘I’d like to do that,’ he answered. ‘I’m very interested in gardens. But I d o n ’t get much tim e to w ork in m ine.’

‘You m ust be busy,’Joan said .‘D o you visit m ost people in the village?’

‘I th ink the village priest should know everybody,’ he said. ‘I knew that you and M r C hapm an were busy. So I haven’t com e to see you before today. B ut I’ve no ticed you bo th in church.’

W hile we had tea, we talked about the village. Father Barnes told us a lo t about its history. Joan and I bo th liked him . H e seem ed to be a good, kind m an and a good priest.

After we finished ou r tea, we w ent into the garden. Father Barnes knew quite a lo t about gardens, too, and that pleased us. Gardeners enjoy talking about the ir gardens. T h en we walked back towards the house.

‘D o you know how your house got its strange nam e?’ he said.‘N o,’ said Joan. ‘D o you know ?’‘It was built by a m an called Samways,’ Father Barnes said. ‘In

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the coun try a house is often given the name o f its builder. Elijah Samways built your house m ore than 200 years ago. H e was a rich man, and he built it for himself.’

‘D id he have a family?’ I asked.‘N o,’ Father Barnes said. ‘H e lived here alone, w ith o u t wife or

children. H e had one old servant — a man.’‘W hat happened w hen he died?’ Joan asked.‘His house was sold,’ Father Barnes said. ‘N o body w ith his

nam e has lived here since then. B ut now you’ve b o u g h t his house and its nam e is still Samways. T h a t’s quite nice, isn’t it?’

We agreed that it w as.T hen I rem em bered som ething.‘W e’ve go t one o ther b ig jo b in the garden,’ I said.‘Look at this

tree.’ I po in ted at a big tree near the wall o f the house. Its branches were nearly touch ing our bedroom window.

‘W e’ll have to cut it dow n,’ I said. ‘It’s too near the house. It will be dangerous w hen the w in ter w inds come.’

Before Father Barnes could reply, Joan spoke. ‘O h , no, Henry,’ she said.‘W e’ve talked about this before.’ She tu rn ed to the priest. ‘Tell h im that h e ’s w rong, Father. I t’s a beautiful, healthy tree. It’s w rong to cu t it dow n.’

T h e priest looked at the tree for a long tim e. ‘I m ust say that I agree w ith M rs C hapm an,’ he to ld m e . It’s a beautiful tree. I d o n ’t th ink it’s dangerous. You can cu t those top branches i f they’re too long. B ut I d o n ’t th ink you should cut the tree dow n. It was grow ing here before Elijah Samways built the house.’

‘We w o n ’t do anything in a hurry,’ I said. ‘W e’ll wait until w in ter comes. T h en w e’ll decide.’

♦

W in ter cam e late that year. T h e long, ho t sum m er was followed by a w arm , dry autum n, and I d idn ’t think about the big tree. T hen , in early N ovem ber, the w inds began and the rain came. We sat in o u r com fortable liv ing-room during the day. We read books

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and listened to music. At night, we had our evening meal and w ent to bed early. Som etim es during the day, I pu t on my raincoat and w ent into the garden. I couldn’t do any w ork there, but I w atched the big tree. In the strong w ind the branches looked like arms m oving high above my head. T hey seem ed to send a message to me, bu t I cou ldn’t read their signs.

O ne day I stood out there longer than usual, and Joan called to m e from the b o u se .‘H enry! W h at are you doing ou t there in the rain?’

‘I’m com ing, dear,’ I answered.But before I re tu rned to the house, I clim bed up the tree. I cut

the tw o branches that were near ou r bedroom window. Father Barnes was right, I thought. T h e tree was strong and healthy. There was no need to cut it dow n. But I felt safer w hen those branches were shorter.

I told Joan and she smiled at me. ‘I’m so glad that you agree, Henry,’ she said .‘Now, take off your wet coat.’

At the end of Novem ber, the w in ter storms got worse. We lay in bed at n igh t and listened to them . We fell asleep at last w ith the sound of the w ind in our ears. A nd w hen we were sleeping, it was in our dreams.

O n N ovem ber 30th - I can’t forget that date — I w oke up in the m iddle o f the night. Joan was sitting up in bed.

‘W h a t’s the m atter?’ I asked.‘C an ’t you sleep?’‘Ssh! . . . Ssh! . . . Listen!’ she said.I listened, bu t I could only hear the sound o f the w ind.‘W hat’s the m atter?’ I asked her again. ‘W hat are you afraid of?’‘T h e re ’s a noise,’ she said. ‘I can’t hear it now, bu t it w oke me

up. Som ebody was knocking at the w indow.’‘Joan, dear, d o n ’t be silly!’ I said. ‘You were dream ing. Lie down

and go to sleep.’‘I’m no t being silly, H en ry ’ she said. ‘Som ebody or som ething

is knocking at that window.’

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I got ou t o f b e d .‘I’ll go dow n to the k itchen and m ake you a ho t drink,’ I said .‘You’re too nervous to sleep.’

Before I could open the bed room door, she called to m e. ‘I’m com ing too, Henry. D o n ’t leave m e here. Listen!’

And this tim e I heard it.K nock . . . knock . . . knock.There, at the bedroom window . Slow, heavy knocks. Loud

enough to hear above the sound o f the w ind.K nock . . . knock . . . knock.I m oved towards the w indow. T h en I stopped. I was afraid to

pull back the curtains. I was afraid to look through the window.W hile I stood there, Joan spoke again .‘It’s all right, Henry,’ she

said. ‘I know w hat it is. Those long branches are knock ing against the w indow in the w ind.’

But the branches were to o short to reach the w indow now. Before I could say anything, she pulled back the curtains. T hen she screamed; and my heart seem ed to stop.

T h e face o f an old man was looking through the w indow. His long, w hite hair was m oving in the wind, and lie was holding up his hands. H e began to hit them against the w indow . . . knock . . . knock . . .

‘Dear G od!’ I c ried .‘Shut h im ou t!’I pulled the curtains across the w indow and pu t m y arm round

Joan.‘C om e w ith me,’ I said.‘W e’ll go dow n to the k itchen.’She pu t her hand in m ine and I to o k her to the door.‘His eyes, H enry !’ she said. ‘D id you notice his eyes? They were

sad . . . terrib ly sad eyes, H enry.’D aylight came at last. T h e w in d was w eaker now and the

m orn ing was cold and bright. A t nine o ’clock I telephoned Father Barnes. H e came and listened to our story.

‘An old m an’s face, you say?’ he asked. ‘W ith long, w hite hair?’‘Yes,’ I said.

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‘D id he seem angry?’ asked Father Barnes. ‘D id h e w ant to frighten you?’

‘O h no!’Joan answered the question before I could speak . ‘No, Father, he seem ed to be asking for help. I ’m sorry we d id n ’t help him . We w ere too frightened.’

T he priest spoke gently. ‘O f course you were afraid. B u t I th ink that perhaps you can help him .’

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‘H ow ?’ I asked.‘You seem to k n o w som ething about the man, so please tell us. If this terrib le th ing happens again, we w o n ’t be able to stay in this house.’

‘I th ink I can solve the mystery,’ he said. ‘Elijah Samways lived here w ith one old servant. I to ld you that, bu t I d id n ’t tell you the rest o f the story. O n e night, thieves killed Elijah Samways and stole all his money. T h e thieves were never caught. T he old servant, R o b e r t Forester, was accused o f letting them in to the house. “ I’m innocen t!” he said. “ I was asleep all night.” But nobody believed him. H e was a p o o r old m an w ith no family and no friends, and . . . and they hanged him in this garden, from a branch o f the b ig tree. T hey hanged an innocent m an.’

‘You believe that he was innocen t?’ I asked.‘I do now. I believe that he was wrongly accused,’ said the

priest. ‘H e cam e to you last n igh t to ask for help.’‘W hy did he com e last night?’ I asked.‘It was N ovem ber 30th,’ said Father Barnes. ‘T h e y hanged

R o b e rt Forester on that date, 200 years ago.’‘H ow can we help him ?’ asked Joan.‘We m ust show him that we believe in his innocence .’‘B u t how can we tell h im ?’ asked Joan.‘Follow me,’ said Father Barnes. And he took us into the

garden, to the big tree. ‘T hey bu ried R o b ert Forester here.’ ‘H ere?’ I said. ‘B ut this isn’t holy ground.’‘N o,’ said the priest. ‘B u t w e’ll make this holy g ro u n d . W eil

pray for R o b e r t Forester.’T h e priest go t dow n on his knees, and Joan and I d id the same.

H e prayed for R o b e rt Forester, and we prayed w ith him . H e prayed for that innocen t m an. H e asked G od to forg ive R o b e rt Forester’s enem ies. T hen he took o ff the cross that he w ore round his neck. H e planted it in the ground. N ow the g ro u n d was holy.

‘H e ’ll rest now,’ said the priest.A nd we w en t back into the qu iet house.

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R oger W ingate’s N ew Car

‘H ow m uch?’ he asked.T h e answer surprised and pleased R oger. T h e car was big, but

the price was low.‘And it’s only a year old?’ he said.‘T hat’s right,’ said the m an at the garage. ‘O n e year old. We

know the m an w ho ow ned it. W e sold it to him . N o w w e’re selling it for him . H e ’s decided to stop driving. W e’ve looked after it since it was new. It’s a good car. A t this price, it’s a very good car.’

R o g er though t hard . T h e garage m an was right. It was a good car and the price was very, very good.

‘I’ll buy it,’ he said .‘I’ll com e for it tom orrow evening w hen Ileave the office.’

So the next evening he sat beh ind the w heel o f his big, new car. H e drove carefully th rough the city traffic. W hen he reached the main road ou t o f the c ity he drove faster. T h e car lights lit the dark road far in front o f him . R o g e r W ingate was very pleased w ith his new car.

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He had to stop at the traffic lights because they w ere red. H e listened happily to the m usic on the car radio.

Suddenly his heart ju m p ed . A voice spoke very quietly. It was — or it seem ed to be — a w o m a n ’s voice.

‘Turn righ t here,’ it said.For a m inute, R o g er th o u g h t that the voice cam e from the

radio. H e was alone in the car. B ut the radio was still playing music. And w hen the voice spoke again, it spoke in to his ear. It d idn’t com e from the radio. It seem ed to com e from the passenger seat nex t to him .

‘Turn righ t here,’ it said again.It was the voice o f a y o ung w om an: a clear, light voice. H e

tu rned to look at the seat, b u t the seat was empty, o f course. T here was n o th ing to fear. B ut R o g e r W ingate was afraid.

O th e r sounds came from b eh in d him . T he drivers o f the o ther cars were angry. R o g er looked at the traffic lights. T hey were green now. H e drove away slowly, and the cars w en t past h im .T he drivers shouted angrily at him .

But R o g er was no t th ink ing about the angry drivers. T he sound o f that quiet voice was still in his ears: ‘T urn righ t here.’ H e began to th ink about the road that w en t to the right. It seem ed to be a quiet street. B ut it w asn’t the way to his house, so he never tu rned righ t at the traffic lights.

R o g e r’s wife, Clare, was very pleased w ith the new car. She though t it was m uch m ore com fortable than the ir old o n e .‘W e’ll take m y m o th er ou t w ith us at the w eekend,’ she said. ‘W e’ll take some food and go to the seaside. T hat will be fun, w o n ’t it, R oger?’

H e d idn ’t answer. H e was look ing at the new car through their liv ing-room window.

‘W on’t it be fun?’ she asked again.‘W hat? O h . . . yes, o f course,’ he said. ‘I’ll enjoy that.’‘I can’t understand you, R oger,’ she said. ‘W h a t’s the matter?

19

You’ve just b o ugh t this lovely car and you d o n ’t seem very pleased.’

‘I’m sorry, Clare,’ he said. ‘I’ve go t a difficult jo b at the office and I was th ink ing o f that.’

H e d idn ’t tell her about the voice in the new car.

♦

R o g er left hom e early the next m orn ing . O n his way to the office, he w ent to see his old friend Bill H arper. Bill w orked on a newspaper and he wasn’t easily surprised by anything. H e listened to R o g er’s story quietly. T hen he asked him a question.

‘You d o n ’t know that street then?’‘No,’ said R oger.‘If you tu rn right at those traffic lights, you ’re in a quiet,

narrow little street,’ said Bill. ‘T here are a few trees on each side and some nice houses. It’s called M onm outh R oad .’

‘Have you been there, Bill?’‘O nce,’ answered Bill. ‘A bout a year ago.’‘You do believe m e?’ said R oger. ‘You believe that I heard that

voice?’‘You believe that you heard it,’ said B ill. ‘T h a t’s the im portan t

thing.’Bill w ent to a cupboard and took o u t a small cassette recorder.

H e gave it to R oger.‘C arry that in your car o n your way hom e ton ight,’ he said.

‘Switch it on ju st before you reach the traffic lights. Sw itch it off w hen you’re past the traffic lights. B ring it back to m e tom orrow m orn ing and w e’ll listen to the cassette together. Prom ise no t to play the cassette before you b ring it back.’

‘I’ll do w hat you say,’ said R oger. ‘I need help, Bill. T h a t voice was real to me. It seem ed to have a message for me. I d o n ’t know w hat the message was, bu t . . . ’

Bill smiled at him . ‘It’s all right, R oger. I know y o u ’re w orried

20

about this. I believe your story. I ’ll help you if I can. W e’re old friends, rem em ber. Use that cassette recorder on the way hom e and b ring it back tom orrow.’

♦

T h e next m o rn in g R oger pu t the cassette recorder dow n on Bill’s desk. His face was white.

‘Yes,’ he sa id .‘Yes. You n eed n ’t ask me. I heard it. Just like last night. But did this th ing hear it?’ H e poin ted at the cassette recorder as he spoke.‘I f it d id n ’t, you w o n ’t believe me.’

‘Sit dow n,’ Bill said .‘Let’s listen to the cassette. We d o n ’t know yet w hat’s on it. W hen w e’ve heard it, we can try to solve your mystery.’

R o g er sat uncom fortably on the front o f his chair.‘I d idn ’t use the car radio last night,’ he sa id . ‘I d id n ’t w ant too m uch noise on the cassette.’

‘G ood!’ said Bill. ‘I forgot to tell you not to switch on the radio. I’m glad you though t o f that.’

Bill sw itched the recorder on, and the cassette began to play. At first, they heard only the sounds o f the m oving car, and the road under the wheels.

‘I opened the car w indow,’ R o g e r explained. ‘I needed fresh air.’

‘Ssh! Be quiet!’ said Bill. ‘I guessed that.’T hen there was less noise from the car. It was runn ing very

quietly.‘I was slow ing down,’ said R o g e r .‘T h e traffic lights w ere red. I

knew that I had to stop.’‘Q u ie t, R oger! I understand w h a t’s happening.’R o g er closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. H e was nervous

— no, he was afraid! H e was afraid that there was no voice on the cassette. ‘Perhaps the recorder d idn ’t work,’ he though t. ‘Perhaps som ething w ent w rong and Bill w o n ’t believe me. T h en every

21

evening I ’ll be afraid. I'll be afraid o f the tim e w hen the voice will speak. A nd one evening w hen it speaks, I’ll do it. I ’ll drive my car into the m ystery and danger w aiting for m e in M o n m o u th R oad. O h , God! T h e voice m ust speak now, on the cassette. Bill has to believe me. H e has to help me

O n the cassette the noise o f the car disappeared. T h e car was at the traffic lights. For a second there was almost no sound.

T hen cam e the clear, light voice, and that terrib le order: Turn right here ...

‘You heard it!’ R o g er sh o u ted .‘Bill! You believe me! You must believe m e now !’

Bill sw itched off the cassette recorder. He tu rned to R o g e r and spoke very quietly .‘I heard it. I believe you, R oger. She’s young. I thought she was.’

‘W hat do you m ean?’‘N o t now, R oger. I’ll explain later. W hen you’ve finished at the

office, com e round here for me. I ’m going to travel back w ith you tonight!’

♦

T h e car left the city streets behind. R o g er drove faster. Bill sat next to him . N either m an spoke. T hey were nervous . . . waiting . . .

They saw the traffic lights in front o f them . A green light shone towards them .

‘W hat shall I do if the light stays green?’ said R oger. ‘I’ve had to stop at it for the past tw o nights.’

‘It w o n ’t m ake any difference,’ said Bill. ‘She’ll speak to you sooner if the light stays green.’

‘H ow do you know ?’‘Ssh! D o n ’t talk. Just listen. T hen do w hat she tells you.’T hey w ere nearly at the traffic lights, and the light was still

green. R o g e r’s m o u th was dry and he could hear the sound o f his

22

nheart. H e looked quickly at his friend. Bill was w atching the green light.

Turn right here — it was the same voice, bu t clearer and stronger.‘N ow !’ said Bill. ‘Into M on m o u th R oad . A nd watch! W atch for

trouble!’R o g er tu rn ed the w heel. T h e big car tu rn ed in to the quiet

little road. A few street lights fo rm ed small lakes o f yellow in the darkness. T h e trees threw deep shadows across the fronts o f the houses and on to the road.

A girl was standing in the darkness, under one o f the trees. T hen the lights o f the car fell on her. T hey could see h er clearly. She shone against the blackness o f the night. She was young - twenty, tw enty-five, perhaps. Beautiful - dressed for a party or a dance.

‘This is it!' Bill said. ‘Be very careful, R oger!’T h e girl th rew herself in to the road in front o f the car. R oger

pulled hard at the w heel. T he car hit the tree, then stopped.

R o g er ju m p ed ou t o f the car. H e shouted in a crazy vo ice, ‘M y G od, I’ve h it her! I’ve killed her! Bill! Bill, w here are you? H elp!’

Bill was by his side. His voice was quiet. ‘It’s all right, Roger. D o n ’t be afraid. You haven’t h u rt her. Look! T he road is empty. Q uiet, now. Be quiet. I t’s all right.’

‘B ut w here . . . w here’s she gone?’ said Roger. ‘I saw her, she was standing there . . . You saw her too . . . then she

‘Yes, I saw her. And I saw w hat she did. B ut she’s no t here now, Roger. Q uiet, now! I’ll get a taxi. T h e garage will com e for your car. You can’t drive it.’

♦

‘I feel better now.’ R o g er pu t dow n his em pty coffee cup. ‘Please tell us w hat you know, Bill.’

‘Yes, Bill, please explain,’ Clare said. ‘I t’s been a terrib le night. You and R o g e r w ere lucky to escape unhurt.’

‘We were.’ Bill spoke very slowly. ‘Yes, I th ink she w anted to kill somebody. B ut I’m no t sure that she wanted to kill us. I ’m not sure o f anything.’

‘Tell us. Please tell us.’‘I’ll try, bu t it’s very difficult. This is a story that I shall never

w rite. N obo d y will believe it. I’ve been in M o nm outh R o ad before. I to ld you that, R oger, d id n ’t I?’

‘Yes,’ replied R oger. ‘O nce, you said. But w hy did you go there?’

‘I d idn ’t w ant to tell you before,’ said Bill. ‘Now, I m ust tell you.’ H e was silent for a m inute, thinking.

‘I knew that girl,’ he said, at last.‘You did?’ said R oger. ‘H ow? W h o is she?’‘Wait, please! Listen. H er nam e is . . . Bill stopped speaking.

T hen he started again. ‘H er nam e was K athleen H enson. She was killed in M o n m o u th R oad . B u t you d idn ’t kill her, R oger. She was killed about a year ago. H e r picture was in the newspapers.

24

i

M y paper had a big picture o f her. T h a t’s how I knew her tonight.’

‘I d o n ’t rem em ber anything about it.’‘I w ork for a newspaper, R oger,’ said Bill. ‘I rem em ber these

things. K athleen H enson lived w ith her father and m o th er in a house in M onm outh R oad . O n e night, she was going to a dance with her boyfriend. She was ready, bu t he wasn’t there yet. So she w ent in to the street to wait to r him .’ Again, he stopped speaking.

‘W hat happened next, Bill?’ said Clare.‘N obody can be quite sure,’ he said. ‘She stood there and she

waited. A car came dow n M o n m o u th R oad . She th o ugh t it was her boyfriend’s car, so she ran ou t in to the street. B ut the car d idn’t stop. T h e driver was a stranger. H e d idn’t know that she was w aiting for somebody. He d id n ’t slow dow n. H e cou ldn’t. It was too late. H e h it her and killed her.’

‘W hat a terrib le thing!’ cried Clare.‘Yes, it was,’ said Bill. ‘T h e police decided that it was an

accident. My new spaper sent m e to M onm outh R oad . I asked a lot of questions, bu t I cou ldn’t discover any new facts. N ow you know w hy I knew the girl. I’ve never forgotten her.’

‘But Bill, w hy did K athleen H enson speak to m e?’ asked R o g e r .‘W hy did she order m e to drive dow n M o n m o u th R oad?’

‘Your car was the car that killed her,’ said Bill. ‘Listen to me, R oger. D o n ’t ever drive that car again.’

25

A Friend o f the Family

‘I know you w o n ’t like it. B u t we can’t refuse.’ Cecily Frobisher passed a le tter to her husband as she spoke. T hey w ere sitting at the breakfast table in their big, com fortable kitchen. ‘R ead it, Frederic,’ she said. ‘T h en you’ll see how difficult it is. Susan Blake wants h er daughter to stay w ith us, and I can’t refuse.’

‘I know how m uch you like Susan,’ said her husband. 'I like her, too. B ut I d o n ’t like her husband. H e ’s a terrib le m an. I don ’t trust him . H e tells lies.’

‘I d o n ’t trust him , either,’ said Cecily. ‘But Terence Blake isn’t com ing here to stay. Please read the letter, Frederic, then you’ll understand .T heir daughter, Isobel, m ust come.’

Frederic Frobisher read Susan Blake’s letter carefully. Susan’s husband, Terence, had a w ell-paid jo b in Canada, and they needed the money. H e was in Canada already, and she w anted to jo in him there. B ut Isobel was only sixteen, and she was still at school. H er m other w anted h er to stay at school in England until she was eighteen. C ou ld Isobel live w ith the Frobishers until then? T he Frobishers w ere the only real friends that Susan had. Isobel’s grandparents were all dead.

Frederic Frobisher passed the le tter back to his wife. ‘I feel sorry for Susan,’ he said.

‘I do, too, Frederic,’ said Cecily. ‘She must jo in Terence soon. This is the first good jo b that h e ’s had for years.’

‘A nd if she doesn’t jo in him , h e ’ll do som ething silly,’ said F rederic .‘H e ’ll lose the job . You can’t trust him. His w ife doesn’t trust him !’ Frederic was angry.‘H e w asn’t honest w ith us w hen he sold us this house.’

‘T hat was ten years ago,’ C ecily said. ‘A nd w e’ve been very happy here.’

26

H e smiled at her. ‘W e’ve always been happy together, m y dear. And this is a lovely house. B u t Terence Blake to ld lies about it, and the price was too high.’

‘Perhaps he d idn’t w ant to sell it,’ she said. ‘His parents lived here. Blakes have lived here for hundreds o f years.’

‘H e had to sell it. H e was stupid and spent all his money. So he had to sell the house.’

Cecily pu t her hand on her husband’s arm . ‘L et’s stop talking about Terence now, dear. I agree w ith you about him . But w hat shall I tell Susan?’

Frederic Frobisher was qu iet for a m inute. T h en he said slowly, ‘I’ve to ld you already, I feel sorry for Susan. I’d like to help her.’

‘T h e n shall I tell her that Isobel can com e?’H er husband looked at his w atch. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘I should be

at work.’ H e tu rn ed to his w ife .‘You’d like the girl to com e here, w ou ldn ’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Frederic,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen Isobel for a long time, but she was a nice little girl. It will be fun to have h er w ith us. And she is a friend o f the family.’

Frederic sm iled . ‘W rite today, Cecily. Invite her to com e. W e’ll try to make her happy.’

H e left the k itchen and closed the door after him . She heard h im walk across to his library. H e was w riting a new book. H e w orked in the library every m orn ing .

‘Isobel w o n ’t be in the way,’ she said to herself. ‘T h e house is big. T h ere ’s plenty o f room for all o f us.’

♦

A bout a m o n th later, on a dark D ecem ber evening, Cecily Frobisher w aited in the hall alone. H e r husband was on his way tothe railway station to m eet Isobel B lake’s train. She looked round the hall. A w arm fire was bu rn in g and all the lights w ere on. She w anted the house to w elcom e Isobel.

27

T h en she suddenly felt ill. She could hear the sound o f her heart in h er chest, and her head was hurting her. She sat dow n in a chair near the fire.

‘Cecily Frobisher, you are a silly w om an!’ she said to herself. ‘You’re nervous because a 16-year-old girl is coin ing to stay w ith you. H ow silly! W hat are you afraid of? You have a loving husband w h o w rites very popular books. You have a beautiful h om e. You’re well and happy. N ow , rest until Isobel arrives.’

She fell asleep in her com fortable chair by the w arm fire, and she dream ed. In her dream she could see herself, asleep in the chair. And she saw the library do o r open. An old w om an came through the door. She was w earing a long black dress and her hair was white. She walked slowly across the hall to the fire, and tu rned her face to the sleeping w om an. H er m ou th opened.

‘D o n ’t!’ Cecily cried out. ‘D o n ’t speak! D o n ’t speak to me! I w on’t listen to you!’

H er ow n shout woke her. She ju m p ed to her feet. T h e hall was em pty. T h en the front door opened, and she heard a g irl’s vo ice. ‘I know the way in. I can walk around this house in the dark.’

Frederic and Isobel came towards her. H e was carrying the girl’s suitcase and smiling.

‘T he train was late, Cecily. I t’s a cold, wet n igh t. Take Isobel up to her room . I’ll b ring her suitcase up, then w e’ll have dinner. I’m sure Isobel is hungry.’

Isobel was tall, dark and quite thin. H er eyes w ere brigh t and excited. She spoke quickly, bu t she w asn’t nervous.

‘M rs Frobisher,’ she said. ‘This is very kind o f you. I ’ve come hom e again, you know.’

H er words were polite. Cecily tried to answer them , bu t she felt uncom fortable. She felt strange in her ow n house. Was this girl the visitor — o r was she?

Isobel looked round the hall. ‘It’s different,’ she said .Y ou’ve made changes.’

28

‘Well, w e’ve—’ began Cecily.‘O f course, i t ’s full o f light and it’s w arm ,’ said Isobel. ‘We never

had a fire in the hall. It was too expensive. B ut y o u ’re rich.’‘N o,’ said Cecily. She tried to speak quietly. ‘N o, Isobel, we

aren’t rich. We have enough‘W hich room are you giving m e?’ Again, Isobel d id n ’t wait to

hear C ecily’s words.‘You’ll sleep in the big front bedroom . It has a lovely view o f

the garden. I th ough t you ’d like‘Yes, thank you,’ said Isobel. ‘T ha t always was my room . D o n ’t

com e up w ith me. I know the way.’And she ran up the stairs. Frederic followed slowly, w ith her

suitcase in his hand. Cecily stood and w atched them .W hen Frederic re turned to the hall, his wife was look ing into

the fire. H e cam e towards h er and she tu rn ed round.‘I’ve m ade a great mistake, Frederic,’ she said.‘O h , it’s too soon to say that,’ he said . ‘E very th ing’s strange. We

like a quiet life. It’ll be all right.’H e was try ing to calm her, bu t he was nervous too.

♦

After a w eek, Cecily becam e m ore hopeful. Perhaps Isobel’s visit wasn’t a m istake. T h e girl helped w ith the cooking. She jo in ed in the conversation at meals. She w ent to bed early, and she was often upstairs in her room . She seem ed happy in her new life.

‘I’m afraid you m ust be lonely,’ Cecily said to her one day. T hey were in the kitchen. Lunch was nearly ready. ‘Y ou’ll make friends w h en you go to your new school. I t’s a lonely life for a young girl in this big house.’

‘Lonely!’ Isobel smiled at h e r .‘I’m no t lonely, M rs Frobisher. I can’t be lonely here.’

‘T h a t’s kind o f you, my dear.’ Cecily was pleased. ‘B ut you do need friends o f your ow n age.’

29

‘I d o n ’t need any young friends. I already have all the friends drat I need here.’

‘T h an k you, dear,’ said Cecily.‘B u t Frederic and I are m uch too old to be . . . ’

‘O h , I wasn’t th inking o f you and your husband.’‘W h at do you m ean, Isobel? W h o . . . ?’T h e girl left the room before Cecily could finish her question.

Cecily heard her laugh softly as she walked across the hall.After supper that night, Frederic and Cecily Frobisher sat by

the fire. Isobel was upstairs in her room . Cecily spoke first, very quietly. She was afraid to speak loudly.

‘You d o n ’t look well, Frederic,’ she said . ‘W h at’s the m atter?‘It’s difficult to explain, Cecily,’ he said . ‘It’s silly o f me, I know.

But I haven’t been able to w rite since Isobel came here.’‘But she doesn’t make a noise. I som etim es th ink that she’s too

quiet.’‘O h no, it’s no t Isobel . . . ’ H e stopped. H e looked afraid.‘Tell me, Frederic. Please tell me.’‘I m ust be quiet and alone w hen I’m w riting a book ,’ he said.

‘You know that. So my library is very im portant to me. It’s big and quiet and comfortable. M y books are there. I can sit at my desk and w rite for hours.’

‘I know, dear. B ut no th ing has changed . You go in to the library every m orn ing after breakfast and you stay there until lunch.’

‘Yes,’ he sa id . ‘A nd I haven’t w ritten anything. O h , I’ve tried. B ut I can’t th ink about my w ork. I’m no t alone in there.’

‘N o t alone! W h at do you m ean, Frederic? I never com e into the library w hen you ’re busy. I’m sure Isobel doesn’t. D oes she?’

‘N o, she hasn’t been in. B ut w h en I sit in m y w riting chair, I can hear a voice. I th ink it’s a w om an’s voice — an old w om an’s voice. She’s talking, bu t I can’t hear the words. T h e room doesn’t seem to belong to m e now. M y desk isn’t m ine. M y chair isn’t m ine. N o th in g in m y library is m ine.’

30

‘Frederic! Stop!’ cried C ecily .‘Y ou’re frightening m e. You need a rest — a holiday. We must

She stopped speaking as a shadow fell across h er face. She looked up. Isobel was standing on the stairs.

‘W hat do you want? W hy are you m oving so quietly?’ Fear made C ecily ’s voice angry.

‘I always move quietly,’ the girl answered. Was she smiling at them? ‘You like the house to be quiet. I was thirsty. I came dow n to get a glass o f water.’

31

‘T hen get it and go back to your room .’‘Yes, Mrs Frobisher.’A m inute later, Isobel re tu rned from the k itchen. She pu t the

glass dow n and stood betw een them . ‘You never saw my grandm other, did you?’ she said.

‘I d idn ’t,’ Frederic answered. ‘A nd I don ’t th ink my wife did. W e d idn ’t visit this house w hen you lived here. Yo u r m o th er came to stay w ith us once o r twice, bu t w e d idn’t com e here.’

‘M y g randm other lived here w ith us w hen I was a little girl. I loved her very m uch. She told m e a lo t o f stories about the house. It’s very old, you know. She died here. T h en m y father lost his m oney and you bought ou r house.’

‘It was very sad for you, Isobel,’ said Frederic , ‘bu t . . . ’‘O h , d o n ’t be sorry for me. I’m back now. M y grandm other

prom ised m e. “This house will be yours,” she said.’ Isobel smiled again. N obody spoke for a m inute o r two. Then she sa id , ‘Can I use your library, M r Frobisher? It was my g randm other’s special room . She d id n ’t like o ther people to use it. Except me. She liked m e to sit in there w ith her. I sat there and listened to her stories. I’ll be very quiet. I was always qu iet in there.’

‘B ut . . . I d o n ’t th ink . . . no . . . ’ Frederic stopped. H e looked across at his wife. H er hands were covering her face.

‘D o n ’t try to decide now,’ said Isobel. ‘You can give m e your answer in the m orning. I m ust go to bed now. O h , I nearly forgot. H ere’s a pho tograph o f my grandm other. I b rought it downstairs w ith me. I’m sure it will interest you, Mrs Frobisher.’ Isobel pushed the photograph in to C ecily’s hands. ‘Look at it. Perhaps you know the face.’

Cecily looked at the photograph. H e r face w ent w hite and her cry o f fear rang through the quiet room . It was a p icture o f the old w om an from her dream.

♦

32

T he Frobishers d idn’t sleep that night. T hey lay in bed and talked in quiet voices.

‘W hat can we do, Frederic?’ said Cecily. ‘She m ust go away. She’s pushing us ou t o f ou r house.’

‘She’s no t going to get m e out.’‘B ut she’s no t alone. T hat terrib le old w om an is here helping

her. R em em b er w hat Isobel said. H er g randm other prom ised her the house. She’ll take it away from us.’

‘T h a t’s impossible,’ said F red eric . ‘It’s our house. W e bough t it. And how can the old w om an be here? She’s dead.’

‘T h en w hy aren’t you alone in the library? W h o ’s in there w ith you? W hy did I know the w om an in that photograph?’

‘But, Cecily . . . ’‘Ssh! Listen!’T hey heard the library do o r open. T h en it closed. Slow

footsteps crossed the hall. Som ebody - or som ething - clim bed the stairs. T hey heard the footsteps go past their bedroom door. T hen Isobel’s bedroom d oor opened and closed. A nd in the darkness, they could hear voices.

Cecily took her husband’s hand. ‘Take m e away tom orrow , Frederic. I’m frightened.’

‘W e’ll go tom orrow m orn ing , m y dear. But Isobel m ust com e w ith us. W e can’t leave her here alone.’

W hen it was light, Frederic dressed. ‘P u t som e things in a suitcase,’ he sa id . ‘We can stay at the hotel in the village for a day or two. I’ll wake Isobel.’

Before Cecily was ready, he was back. ‘H u rry !’ he said. ‘Leave that suitcase. Isobel isn’t in her room .’

‘N o t in her room! W here is she?’Frederic h u rried his w ife downstairs and ou t o f the house

before he answ ered.‘T h e library d o o r’s locked. I can’t get in. But Isobel’s in there. A nd she’s talking to som eone.’

H e drove to the village and left Cecily at the hotel.

33

‘You’ll be safe here,’ he said. ‘W ait until I com e back.’‘W here are you going, Frederic?’‘I’m going to get a police officer and the doctor,’ he said. ‘T hen

I’m going back to our house — if it is our house.’

♦

T he police officer looked closely at the lock on the library door.‘I shall have to break a w indow and climb into the room ,’ he

said. ‘T hat lock is too strong to break.’Frederic Frobisher and the docto r waited in the hall in front o f

the library door. T hey heard the sound o f breaking glass. They heard the key tu rn , and the door opened.

‘C om e in, doctor,’ said the police officer. ‘N o, no t you, M r Frobisher. I t’s n o t nice in there.’

Frederic could hear the sound o f his heart w hile he waited. And he could hear noises in the library. T he police officer spoke. A chair was m oved. T he docto r said som ething. T h e m inutes seemed like hours.

T hen the library door opened again, and the docto r came out. H e put a hand on Frederic’s arm and took him to a chair at the o ther end o f the hall.

‘She’s dead, M r Frobisher,’ he said. ‘She’s sitting in the big w riting chair. How old is she?’

‘Sixteen, doctor. She had her sixteenth birthday ju st before she came to live w ith us.’

‘Sixteen! T h e n w h a t’s happened to her? H er hair is w hite, and her face is the face o f an old w om an.’

34

A Birthday Card for Mrs R ogers

I picked up m y bag o f letters, left the post office and started my long ride th rough the streets o f H illw ick. It was seven o ’clock on

O O

a sunny sum m er m orning. T h e brigh t m orn ing m ade m e happy, bu t there was another reason for m y happiness. M y wife and I were from London. B ut w h en Hillw ick was look ing for a postm an, I decided to take the job . Now, six weeks later, we had a com fortable little house w ith a good garden. We liked the quiet, sleepy little tow n, and we already had some friends.

I’ve always liked my w ork. I like fresh air and exercise. And people need postm en to carry the ir letters safely. T h e business life o f the coun try stops if letters aren’t delivered. B ut I really like delivering the private letters. People w rite to their old friends. A dult children w rite to the ir parents. Boys w rite to the girls they love. It makes m e happy to carry these letters.

I was th ink ing o f all those things as I rode my bicycle down

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Gold Street o n that b righ t sum m er m orning. M ost o f the buildings w ere shops and offices, and I delivered letters to them all. M y bag was m uch lighter w hen I tu rned left in to C hurch Road.

N o t m any o f the houses in C hurch R oad had letters that m orning, so I soon arrived at the last house, N u m b er 92. I had three letters to r that address. W hen I opened the gate to the front garden, I heard a voice.

‘You’ve forgotten my letter, postm an.’T he voice came from the garden o f N um ber 91. A w om an was

standing in front o f the door o f that house.‘Wait a m inute,’ I answ ered. ‘I’ll deliver these letters to N um ber

92, then I’ll com e back.’I pushed the letters through the letterbox o f N u m b er 92, and

then I walked slowly up the garden path o f N u m b e r 91. I searched through my bag, but I cou ldn ’t find any letters for that address.

T he w om an stood w aiting for m e w ith a little smile on her face. She seem ed sure that I had a le tter for her. She pu t ou t her hand and I could see a big gold ring on her finger. H er grey hair was brigh t in the sunlight. She was w earing a dark green dress, and shiny shoes. I searched through m y bag again.

‘Perhaps i t ’s a card,’ she said. ‘Som etim es he sends m e a letter and som etim es he sends me a card.’

H er voice was soft, and her big brow n eyes w atched me.‘A card or a letter,’ she said. ‘F rom m y son in A m erica. H e lives

there now, bu t he never forgets m y birthday. I t’s my birthday today, postm an.’

‘1 hope y o u ’ll have a happy. . . ’ I w anted her to be happy. I w anted her to have h er letter. B ut I knew that I d id n ’t have one tor her.

‘Please look again, postm an,’ she said. ‘A letter o r card for Mrs Emily R ogers o f 91, C hurch R o ad .’

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I looked through my bag again. I knew there was no mistake. T here was n o th ing for M rs R ogers, bu t I d idn’t w ant to make her sad.

I felt angry w ith her son. It was w rong o f him to forget his m o th e r’s birthday. I cou ldn’t tell her that. But tha t’s w hat I thought.

A t last, I had to speak. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs R ogers. T h e re ’s no th ing here for you. Perhaps . . . tom orrow . . . I’m sorry...’

T h e happy smile was gone, and I saw tears in her eyes. Suddenly, she looked very small and very old.

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‘Som eth ing’s happened to him ,’ she said. H er voice was very w eak . ‘H e’s never forgotten before.’

She tu rn ed away from me. W hen I reached the gate, I looked back. T he front d oo r o f N u m b er 91 was closing.

I delivered the rest o f the letters and cards in m y bag and I re turned to the post office. M y m o rn in g ’s work was finished and I was free until six o ’clock that evening. T hen I had to go to the railway station w ith the letters that were posted in Hillwick.

I started to ride my bicycle dow n Sheep Street, bu t I stopped at a little café for a cup o f coffee. W hat a sad birthday for M rs Rogers! I w anted to make her happy again. B ut how?

T hen I had an idea. I w ent to a new spaper shop w here they sold birthday cards. I chose a card for Mrs Rogers.

I chose the birthday card very carefully. It was a copy o f a picture by Turner, the great English painter. Inside, there was a simple message: ‘H appy B irthday’. Below the message, I wrote, ‘For Mrs R ogers. I hope that I shall b ring you a card from your son tom orrow .’ T hen I signed my nam e and added, ‘Your Postm an’.

I felt better after that. It w asn’t a birthday card from her son, o f course. But it was a card, on her birthday. Som ebody was th ink ing about her.

At the bo tto m o f Gold Street, I tu rn ed left into C hurch R oad. A big lo rry was parked outside one o f the houses. T h e traffic wasn’t m oving, and I had to wait.

I though t about the day’s problems while I waited. W hy wasn’t I at hom e now, w ork ing in my garden? W hy was I trying to look after Mrs Rogers?

‘And w hy haven’t I seen h er before?’ I asked myself. ‘I’ve w orked in H illw ick and delivered letters in C hurch R o a d for six weeks now. B ut there haven’t been any letters for N u m b er 9 1 . I haven’t seen M rs R ogers at her door, o r in her garden. It’s strange.’

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But I had no answers. T h e traffic began to move, and I rode to Mrs R o g ers’ house.

I got o ff m y bicycle at her garden gate. W hile I walked up the garden path, I tried to solve ano ther problem . ‘Shall I push the card th rough the letterbox and w alk away?’ I asked myself. ‘N o, that’s no t very friendly. I t’s her birthday. She’ll w ant to talk to somebody.’

So I knocked loudly on h er door. I held the card ou t in front o f m e and I w aited for the do o r to open.

‘You w o n ’t get an answer there, postm an.’T h e voice came from the nex t garden. A w om an was looking

at me. She lived in N um ber 92, and her nam e was Sparson. I knew this from her letters.

‘I d o n ’t understand . . . ’ I said.‘T h at house is empty,’ she said.‘I’ve got a birthday card for Mrs R ogers,’ I said. ‘It’s her

birthday today.’‘I know it is,’ she said. ‘O r . . . I know it was.’‘Was?’ I asked. ‘W hat do you m ean?’‘N u m b er 91 is empty. N o b o d y ’s lived there for a year.’‘But I saw M rs R ogers this m orn ing . She was w aiting for me.

She told m e about her birthday. She was hop ing for a card from her son. H e lives in Am erica.’

‘He did live in America.’ M rs Sparson’s voice seem ed louder. ‘A year ago today, M rs R ogers was w aiting for a birthday card from her son. H e never forgot her b irthday. T he card d id n ’t arrive, but later that day she had a p h o n e call from N ew York. H er son was dead. Killed in a car accident.’

‘W hat terrib le news!’ I said . ‘A nd on her birthday!’‘It was,’ said Mrs Sparson. ‘She died that evening, o f a broken

heart.’I stood there for a m inute. T hen I put Mrs R ogers’ birthday

card in m y pocket and I walked slowly to the garden gate.