Libby hadn't seen anything but dry stone walls, mountains and sheep since she left the M6. The walls were endless, mountains surrounded her in three directions and sheep lurked around every corner - twice she'd had to brake to avoid running over the little buggers.
But then, there it was. Gosthwaite.
She sat a little straighter as her battered Mini followed Zoe's BMW into the village. They crawled past walkers in hiking boots and old ladies chatting outside the Post Office until finally, they arrived in the Square.
On Google Maps the Georgian townhouses looked elegant but bland. In reality they were painted pale olives, sky blues and the subtlest of dusky pinks, their facades creating a pastel rainbow around the square. Even Great-aunt Maggie's cottage looked passably cute with pink clematis covering half of the pebble-dashing.
Was this it, the place she'd finally find a distraction that worked? A new man? The perfect job?
As Libby parked up, Zoe hovered at the garden gate. A garden, they had a front garden. Okay, it was only about six feet in depth from the house, but none of the townhouses had one.
'Just so you're aware,' Libby said as they wandered between the fat lavender plants lining the path, 'I've never wielded a lawnmower in my life.'
'I'm hoping there's some fit young gardener guy we can employ.' Zoe's hand hesitated as she turned the key in the lock. 'God knows what it's like in here. Maggie was a scatty woman, clutter everywhere.'
Libby held her breath. Someone died in this house. 'There won't be any, you know... evidence, will there?'
'Lib, she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. She wasn't bludgeoned to death.'
But Libby wasn't fooled by her friend's overly chipper smile. Sure enough, when the door opened into a long hallway, they stood on the threshold, staring at the foot of the stairs, neither of them admiring the black and white Victorian tiles.
'So is that where...' Libby wrapped her arms around herself.
The stairs were wooden, the floor ceramic. She winced imagining poor Great-aunt Maggie's final moments. How long had the little old lady lay there, dying? Minutes, hours? Hopefully, less than a second.
Zoe looked up to where the staircase turned to the right, disappearing from view. 'She had this big, fat old cat and he used to sleep at the top of the stairs. Mum said she probably tripped over him. The amount of times, I'd nagged her about him. I nearly broke my neck last time I stayed here.'
'What happened to the cat?'
Zoe shrugged. 'A neighbour, Sheila, I think, came to feed him after they'd found Maggie but he'd gone.' With a little shake of her head, Zoe flashed a real smile. 'Okay, maudlin over. Want a tour?' Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door to their left. 'Welcome to the Eighties.'
'Wow.' Libby stared at the flowery sofa, matching curtains and coordinating striped wallpaper, a riot of burgundy and cream. 'I've never seen so much chintz in one place.'
Knick-knacks covered every occasional table, books were stacked against the walls, but Libby just discerned an upright piano from the CDs stacked around it. She squeaked in delight.
'Please, please, please, can we keep the piano?'
'If we must.' Zoe peered at the label on a tassel-cornered scatter cushion. 'Back in the day, Maggie liked quality. This is a Laura Ashley vomitorium.'
Libby cleared the CDs, lifting the lid and stroking the keys with reverence. Without hesitation, she pressed middle C. When had she last played? A pub in Cornwall?
'It needs tuning,' she said, closing her eyes, feeling the note more than hearing it. She hit G-sharp, adoring the melodic ring.
'Don't get started on your Lady Gaga repertoire,' Zoe replied. 'We've got to unpack.'
Through the door on the opposite side of the hallway they found the dining room. It featured no less chintz but at least its blue and white theme was a little less jarring on the eye.
Zoe ducked down, inspecting the underside of the ornate table. 'That's real mahogany and so going on EBay tonight.'
The kitchen sat at the back of the house. Its magnolia walls oddly muted compared to the other rooms, though the mustard yellow splash-back tiles featuring the occasional vegetable display made up for it. A gift bag sat on the side, with a card addressed to Maggie.
'Don't drink it all at once,' Zoe read before peering inside the bag.
'Wine?'
'If there was, someone must've lifted it.' Zoe took out a pair of tall, beeswax candles. 'They've got Regift Me written all over them.'
Libby peered through the window in the kitchen door. At the end of the long garden, edged with tall privet hedges, she could see nothing but fields stretching into the distance.
'Ace, there's a proper herb garden,' Libby said. The multitude of planters dotted around the crazy-paved patio put to shame the window box she'd nurtured back in Manchester. 'I spy... thyme, parsley, mint, rosemary and marjoram but god knows what the rest are.'
Zoe pointed to the tall, bushy plants growing in a sun-trapped corner. 'It's not all for eating.'
'You're joking. She grew weed?'
'To help with her arthritis, she used to say.' Zoe mouthed, whatever.
Giggling, they went through a side door, back into the hallway, both determinedly not looking at the foot of the stairs a second time.
Upstairs, the first door led to a peach-coloured bathroom, the second to a stripy mint-green guest room and the final door to Maggie's bedroom. Libby hung back in the doorway as Zoe wandered in. The bed was made, no clothes lay strewn around.
'Could you imagine if we died, the state of our bedrooms?' Libby tried to sound light-hearted but Maggie's dressing gown still hung on the back of the door, her photos, trinkets, clothes, all just as she'd left them. 'People would probably think we'd been burgled.'
Zoe poked through the silver jewellery box, examining a ring as the sunlight dimmed and the room fell into a sudden gloom. Goosebumps covered Libby's arms.
A rain cloud. It's just a raincloud.
She reached out to the ancient Bakelite switch and, with one finger, flicked it down. The light bulb flashed and a loud crack made her squeal. Zoe jumped, knocking the jewellery box to the floor as she span around.
'Ohmigod. I swear I felt that.' Libby's hand shook as she tentatively flicked the switch back up and gave a nervous laugh. 'She's not haunting us, is she?'
Zoe didn't smile as she bent to scoop up the beads and bracelets scattered on the floor. 'House rule number one. No using the electrics unless absolutely necessary. The electrician's coming tomorrow.'
'Thank god. You should make sure he rocks up with a defibrillator.'
'God or the electrician?'
'I don't care as long as I don't linger in chintz purgatory for all of eternity.'
Three hours later, Libby left Zoe to deal with gas meter readings and a Tesco delivery, while she wandered to the Langton Hall livery yard to meet her new boss, Sandra. On paper, it was hardly a career choice. Four days a week, minimum wage, no career prospects and she wasn't convinced she'd get to ride the horses, but it was a job with horses. At the Equestrian Centre where she'd sat her BHS Stage Three exams, the head instructor had said one equestrian job would spawn another. Fifteen minutes after arriving at the livery yard, Libby prayed the spawning would occur sooner, not later.
'No music,' Sandra said as they marched from the tack room, ignoring the horses. 'I can't abide the bloody radio. This is the countryside. I want to hear bird song, not Radio bloody One in the morning.'
The swallows would have to be in fine voice to be heard over Sandra's nasal whine. Libby tried not to giggle, but focussing on Sandra's panty line, perfectly visible under the straining tartan seat of her jodhpurs didn't help. Not that Sandra was fat, but those skimpy briefs had to be two sizes too small for her.
At least Sandra hadn't frowned at the purple streaks in Libby's hair. But then, Sandra's own hair was the colour of a London bus. In fact, in her pristine cream jodhpurs and neatly ironed black t-shirt, Libby felt ludicrously respectable.
'And absolutely no smoking on the yard.' Sandra flashed Libby a suspicious frown as they passed a row of inquisitive ponies.
Libby paused to stroke the nose of a pretty grey.
'Careful, that's a nasty little bugger. Bit me twice last week.' Sandra bent down to pet her little Sheltie. 'Not like my little Bublé. You'd never bite mummy would you? And no feeding the nags Polos. It makes them forget their manners.'
Libby kissed the grey, who blew on her hand.
'The phone in the tack room is for office use.' Sandra marched on. 'Yard duties start at eight, not five past. Tea breaks are at ten thirty and three. Lunch, twelve 'til one, not five past. You'll finish at six, not five to.'
Ten minutes later, after berating clients for not stacking buckets neatly and for generally wanting to keep their horses on her yard, Sandra thrust out her hand for Libby to shake.
'Nice to meet you, Libby. Now, I have to find my bloody useless excuse for a husband. The stupid man promised me he'd be back with the car before Michael arrived.'
'Does Michael work here too?' Libby delivered her question with utter innocence but she'd already clocked the flush to Sandra's unfortunate high-colouring when she mentioned this Michael. Was she having an affair?
Sandra laughed, a silly giggle, as she dragged a hand through her hair, pulling it off her face. 'Heaven's no. He's the feed merchant. I'll see you in the morning. Eight sharp.'
Libby saluted the departing back of Sandra Langton-Brown as she disappeared into the ancient, sprawling farmhouse. The long days didn't faze Libby, but the thought of listening to Sandra bad mouth the world for ten hours a day made her long for her job running around after the North-West's most caustic wedding planner.
A month. If she could stick it out for a month, that wouldn't feel like giving up. One month. Or four weeks maybe.
'Ow, watch it, Tals,' squealed a voice behind her.
From the little grey's stable, two girls emerged. One nearly as tall as Libby, with her dark hair pulled back in a scruffy bun, the other a head shorter and wearing more make-up than Libby.
'I thought she'd never bloody go,' the dark-haired girl said, leaning back against the stable door. She was impeccably well spoken and had no need for make-up with her huge brown eyes. 'Are you one of the new girls from the square? I'm Tallulah. This is Chloe. We're actually the same age but she's a short arse.'
Chloe gave Tallulah the finger.
'I'm Libby.'
'Are you really a lesbian?' Tallulah asked, tipping her head to the side, studying Libby.
Chloe tutted. 'Lesbians don't wear make-up, or have cool hair. They have skin-heads.'
Libby opened her mouth, but hadn't a clue what to say.
'But, so are you a lesbian?' Tallulah asked again. 'Only I heard Miss Knightmare say she and my Aunt Daisy were when they moved to Gosthwaite and that you and your friend are, like, living together so you probably are too.'
'Or not. Zoe and I are most definitely not lesbians.' Libby couldn't help liking Tallulah. 'Aren't you a bit young to be asking about these things?'
Chloe pouted. 'We're not little kids. We're practically twelve.'
Libby focussed on her boots to hide her smile. 'I have to go. Still need to unpack.'
'What's it like,' Tallulah piped up before Libby had chance to leave, 'living in the old witch's house?'
'It's fine.' Libby crossed her fingers behind her back. 'But she's dead so you shouldn't call her names.'
'I'm not,' Tallulah said, as she unbolted one of the stable doors.
'She was a witch,' Chloe said. 'A proper one. Not with a black cloak and broomstick, but one of them white ones.'
'A Wiccan,' Tallulah added, leading out a bay gelding. 'But isn't it weird?'
'Okay, it's a bit weird,' Libby admitted. 'I've never lived in a house where someone died. Well, not knowingly.'
'What about living in a house where someone was-'
'Tal!'
'What?' Tallulah pushed her riding hat low over her eyebrows. 'It's true.'
'What's true?' Libby stroked the gelding, rubbing the brilliant white star peeking from under his perfectly pulled forelock.
'Maggie...' Tallulah's eyes flashed, clearly loving that she had Libby's attention. '...was murdered.'
Libby shook her head. 'She fell down the stairs.'
'Whatever,' Tallulah replied. 'Chloe's sister Lauren said that Becky from next door but one to Maggie, heard her scream. And then Becky saw someone walking down the lane. This is Shakespeare, by the way.' She ran her hand along the gelding's neck.
Chloe's face flushed. 'Well, I'm not sure-'
'Did Lauren tell you that, or not?'
'Yeah, but Becky also said Gary Barlow had moved in down the road.' Chloe made a W sign with her fingers.
'So, what you're telling me,' Libby asked, trying not to laugh, 'is that Maggie was a witch and she was murdered?'
Chloe crossed her arms, shooting Tallulah a smug smile, backing up the ridiculous nature of the accusation.
'Thing is,' Tallulah said as she tightened Shakespeare's girth. 'Maggie was a witch. She made real love potions and chanted to weird goddesses. And she danced around the garden when there was a full moon.'
Libby shivered, remembering the shock from the light switch. 'Seriously?'
Tallulah flashed an enormous smile. 'Aunt Daisy says you should always try to keep an open mind. And Becky swore on her iPhone that she saw someone leave the house. She was having a fag out of her bedroom window. Did you know we're looking for a groom?'
Libby blinked, thrown by the change of topic. 'Who's we?'
'My dad. Mum's going on tour with the band she's in-'
'Oh, whatever. It's a string quartet,' Chloe said.
'Bite me.' Tallulah ripped a Pony Club flyer from the tack room door and scrawled a name and number on the back. 'Sandra's a complete cow, but you seem cool. Give Dad a ring. He's busy at the restaurant 'cause it's rumoured to be getting a star or something, so he needs a hand on the yard.'
Utterly perplexed, Libby took the flyer. 'What restaurant?'
'The Bobbin Mill. It's just outside the village,' Tallulah replied. 'It's supposed to be ace, but I'd rather go to Pizza Express.'
'I so want a job at the Mill.' Chloe's face went pink again. 'Tal's uncle, Xander, is officially the fittest bloke ever.'
'You're so lame.' Tallulah shook her head as she pulled down her stirrup. 'Honestly, ring my dad. I'll tell him you're ace.'
'I've just got a job. I don't need another one.'
'But our place is better.'
'Why?'
'You get to ride my horses.'
Libby stared as Tallulah and Shakespeare trotted out of the yard. Maggie was a witch, a potentially murdered witch and there was another job on the horizon? She shook her head, banishing crazy thoughts. She couldn't switch jobs already, no matter how crappy this one seemed.
Chloe sat down on an upturned bucket, her thumb blurring as it moved over the buttons on her phone. 'She does have the best horses. Her dad breeds show-jumpers. He's really fit too, but don't tell her I said that.'
Libby stuffed the flyer into her pocket.
Murdered witches, livery yard owners shagging feed merchants, fit men breeding show-jumpers... wasn't life supposed to be tranquil in the countryside?
Armed with the local paper and a bottle of champagne, Libby skipped up the garden path, ready to celebrate their new move.
'Hi, honey, I'm home,' she called out as she pushed open the front door. 'Apparently, we're-' The hallway was stacked with boxes. Boxes they'd emptied that morning but were now refilled. 'Um... I thought we were unpacking?'
Zoe popped her head out of the dining room, her hands clutching two china figurines from Maggie's welsh dresser. 'We have nowhere to put our stuff until we get rid of her junk. It's everywhere.' She dropped the figurines in a box already half-filled candlesticks and glass bowls. 'It can all go for landfill tomorrow.'
'But some of it might be worth-'
'It's junk.'
'I don't mind sorting it out.' Although the mere idea of going through a dead woman's belongings seemed decidedly creepy, Libby offered a supportive smile.
'I just want it out of the house.' Zoe sat on the edge of the dining table. 'I want her out of the house.'
'I made friends with a couple of eleven year-olds today. One of them reckoned Maggie was murdered, oh and we're lesbians.'
'For god's sake, that's all I need.'
'Come on, it's just nonsense.'
Zoe looked around the dining room, frowning at the remainder of Maggie's belongings. 'This isn't going how I expected.'
'It's spooky, isn't it?'
'It's like she's still here.'
Libby grabbed Zoe's arm. 'Come on, it's way past lunchtime and the cooker's electric. I don't fancy electrocuting myself trying to heat up soup.'
'Pub?'
'Time to meet the locals.' Libby unfastened her plait and shook out her hair. 'And let them know we aren't lesbians.'
The King Alfred, on the opposite side of the square to Maggie's house, was one of the few double-fronted Georgian buildings. Boxes stuffed with pansies sat in front of every window and hanging baskets overflowed with fuchsias. The Gosthwaite in Bloom winner's plaque was proudly displayed for everyone to see.
Libby pulled open the heavy, glass-panelled door as a roar filled the pub. Inside a group of men, all in work boots, stood around the bar, bellowing support as one of the party downed a pint of Guinness.
'Oh god, wrong pub,' Libby whispered, hoping they could back out before they were noticed.
Zoe nudged her forwards. 'No, this is the Alfred. It's okay.'
The first of the men looked round, grinning before elbowing the man next to him, who elbowed the next. The cheering fizzled out until all fifteen men grinned down at them.
'Come and sit yourself over here, love.'
'What you drinking? Bri, you're in the chair, get these lasses a pint.'
The guy who'd sank the Guinness was the last to turn, his eyes pointing in two different directions as he took in Zoe and Libby. 'Strippers!'
Libby shrank back in horror.
'Get over yourself, Sparks,' said a dark haired girl as she appeared behind the bar. 'As if this lot would pay for a stripper.' She flashed a welcoming smile. 'Come on in. Ignore this bunch of muppets. It's Sparky's twenty-first. What can I get you?'
'Wine, dry white, please,' Libby said, grateful to be rescued. Several of the men still watched them with silly grins, but most had gone back to their pints.
'What size? Pointless, sensible or take a bath in?'
'Bath,' Zoe replied.
At least half of the men watched as the comely barmaid bent down to take the wine from the bottom of the fridge. Libby felt like an ironing board in comparison.
'So, you two must be the girls moving into Maggie's old place. I'm Grace, by the way.' Her chunky black fringe fell just below her eyebrows, shadowing her blue eyes as she half-filled two enormous glasses with a white Rioja and glanced over Libby's jodhpurs. 'I take it you're the one who's got the misfortune of working for Sandra, hideous old cow. Which means you,' she paused to hand Zoe the first glass, 'must be the estate agent, Maggie's niece.'
Zoe nodded. 'She was my great-aunt, but yes. I'm Zoe, this is Libby.'
Libby, overcome with fringe envy, took two huge mouthfuls of the surprisingly good wine, and glanced around, catching the eye of a cute guy at the end of the bar. Light brown hair, cheeky smile and an even cheekier glint in his eye. She smiled. He smiled back.
'She was a fine woman,' slurred a deep voice behind them.
'Oh give over, Stan.' Grace smiled apologetically to Zoe. 'He had a thing for Mags.'
'I thought you said she was a hideous old witch,' Libby whispered to Zoe.
'She was,' Zoe muttered back, frowning at the ancient old soak now swaying beside them.
'She were a siren,' he fixed his watery gaze on Zoe.
'Leave it, Stan,' Grace warned.
'You two want to watch yourselves,' Stan went on, undeterred. 'Maggie put a spell on that place.'
'A spell?' Libby asked.
'It's a load of nonsense Mags and Sheila dreamt up over too much sloe gin,' Grace said, leaning on the bar. 'She said she'd put a love spell on the house and any girl who slept there would become irresistible to the man she desired.'
'Awesome.' Libby laughed.
'But,' Stan said, as he bent closer, 'what happens when the siren doesn't desire the man anymore? What does he do then? She lured us in and cast us aside.'
A frown furrowed his already creased with age face as he gazed at nothing, recalling memories. Of what, Libby longed to ask.
'Okay, Stan. Let's not scare the nice girls on their first day.' The cute guy from the end of the bar flashed Libby that cheeky smile as he put his arm around Stan's shoulders.
'Eyes front, Jack,' Grace snapped.
'What? I'm just saying hello.' With one arm still around the swaying Stan, Jack held out his hand. 'I'm Jack.'
Libby glanced warily at Grace. 'Libby and this is-'
'Zoe Horton?' Jack asked. 'Fucking hell, it must be fifteen years ago but you used to hang round the village in a tutu.'
Grace dropped her irritated scowl. 'Oh my God, I remember. I was about six.'
'Fag?' Zoe muttered before she walked out, not waiting for a reply.
Libby watched her friend leave. What on earth? Tutu obsession was something they'd both laughed about in the past. Libby had lived and slept in hers from the age of four to fourteen. Picking up her wine, she smiled at Grace, Jack and Stan. 'It's lovely to meet you.'
Jack shot her a wink and Grace slapped his arm.
'I'm stood right here,' Grace hissed as Libby left the bar, 'and you're flirting with that peroxided bag of bones. She's-'
The door banged shut, cutting off Grace's tirade. Outside, Zoe sat on one of the wooden benches, scowling across at Maggie's cottage.
'So that went well.' Libby lit a cigarette and tossed the pack to Zoe. 'And?'
'I'd rather not remember running around the village like an idiot in a tutu.'
'And it's why I hope never to set foot in Brize Norton again.' Libby sipped her wine, settling back in the afternoon sunshine. 'Was Maggie really a witch?'
Zoe still stared at the cottage. 'She certainly was to me.'
That night in the mint-toothpaste spare bedroom, Libby slept badly, her head filled with alcohol-fuelled dreams. A black cat scratched at a coffin, releasing an un-dead Maggie who then waltzed around the square, swapping partners after every twirl - her suitors the workmen from the pub.
'Libby...' she called, reaching out a hand. 'Libby...'
Libby woke, her heart hammering in her chest as she stared at the ceiling. A floorboard creaked. What the hell? She stopped breathing, trying not to make a sound. A second creak. Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes widening when she saw the woman from her dream, her long grey hair, dark against her white gown.
Maggie.
Libby screamed.
'Fucking hell, Lib,' yelled the apparition.
The room flooded with light and Zoe slumped against the wall.
'Ohmigod, I thought you were her.' Libby sat up, rubbing her eyes. 'What's up?'
'I can't sleep.'
'Bad dream?'
'No. Allergies.' Zoe sneezed. 'The bloody cat's turned up.'
♥♥♥ Author's Note ♥♥♥
Awe, I love Hyssop. He's one of my favourite characters. Who do you like best so far?
♥♥♥ Happy Reading ♥♥♥