We go down for drinks in the bar and I try to persuade Ruth to book into the hotel for the night rather than risk the walk back. "Beth, I'll be fine, I promise. Besides, I need to milk the goats tonight and in the morning and, please don't think me a coward, but I don't think I could actually sleep here... sorry."
I'm surprised that such an amazingly together and capable woman has just said that. I also feel disappointed that she's going to leave me, though I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I want to know if she sees the ghost too, maybe I feel I need her strength or it could be simply that I'll miss her company. All of them, probably.
After just a single drink each I walk with her out through the front door of the hotel and cannot help shivering; the night is cold and when I look up there are a few clouds drifting briskly on the steady breeze lit by the moon that is waxing towards full. "See, with the moon that close to full I'll hardly need the torch," she says, trying to allay my fears.
"Ruth, please... please stay here tonight. I need you here, with me because..." there are several reasons I could give, "...because I need to know that I'm not imagining this."
"Imagining what, Beth?"
"All this spooky, creepy, scary stuff. Please. I can drive you to the farm and we can milk the goats together, you can grab some stuff and come back with me. I've only had one drink." There is an odd look on her face, almost disappointment as If she thought or hoped I might say something different; perhaps it was just the play of moonlight and the electric light above on her face because after a moment she nods.
"Okay," she acquiesces.
"Oh, thank you! It'll be like we're having a sleepover," I say happily as I reach out and hug her in gratitude. "Come on, lets sort out a room for you."
"Will I be sleeping in it?" she asks wryly, "Or is it just for decorum?"
"Well, I hoped we'd be in the same room, in case the ghost appears," I reply, "but paying for a room it does mean that you'll get breakfast."
"And the decorum?"
"Um, I think Alison Curnow might be wondering what's going on between us," I confess awkwardly. "I'm pretty sure she knew we were both in the room and I think she saw your trousers on the bed when you were in the bath earlier."
"Is that a problem for you, what she thinks?"
"Mum always said that there was nothing more important that your reputation," I reply, remembering her hand-wringing anxiety over what Mrs Jones would think about something or other or whether she should have told Eileen Jackson something else and what if Eileen repeated it to Linda May... "I really don't want to be like my Mum." I say quietly.
"So, shall we book a separate room for me or... whatever you're happier with because I really don't mind."
"I so want to say 'Fuck Alison and her opinion' but... I do need her and her husband's cooperation in researching and writing this ghost story so I can't risk upsetting them. I'm not saying that they'd be upset by us sharing a room, I rather suspect they might be more upset by the loss of revenue, but whatever, I don't want to risk it."
So that's what we do: we go and book Ruth a room for tonight. It's not next door unfortunately but along the landing to the left, through the arch and then down the corridor to the right; I don't think old Ken deliberately gave her a room miles from mine; I hope not, anyway. It's then the drive over to the farm, and some hasty milking. At least Ruth's is hasty; she has finished and has time to go, sort out her changes of clothing and return to the shed before I'm done. "Well done," she says and I finally finish.
"Thank you, and thanks for letting me finish: it's quite a satisfying feeling isn't it?"
"Mmm very, and especially so when you use the milk to drink or cook. I want to start growing some vegetables next year too and maybe get some chickens. Make this more like a farm again, you know?"
"That sounds lovely. I envy you living here; well, maybe not right now but when the builders have finished definitely. "
"Even with the spooky, scary Moor outside?" she asks as she locks up and we head to the car. I still don't know how to explain it but here on the farm and with her it feels very safe.
"Yeah, even with the Moor," I smile.
Back at the hotel we're lying side by side in my bed looking through the floor plans that Alison gave me earlier as we try to work out which room is which. The re-working of the building into a hotel and the fact that neither of us is particularly good at reading the plans makes it a challenge.
"We can assume that the stairs are the same..." I say, holding one of the sheets above us so we can both see it "so... this is still the main landing here..." My finger points to the paper as it flops around above our heads.
"I know. Hang on a moment." Ruth jumps up and goes to the bedroom door. She goes to her rucksack and fetches a Swiss Army knife from it and then proceeds to work the fire escape instruction sheet out of its frame. A minute later she is back in bed. "Ta daa!" she says as she holds up the instructions, alongside the sheet I hold, and there on the bottom half is a small floor plan with the current layout. It's a long way from ideal but it does help.
"So Room 1 was the old master bedroom, more or less, Room 2, this room was... no the room the other side, Room... 10 used to be the Master's Dressing Room which means this room was, oh yes, the Mistress's Dressing room.." I look at Ruth. "Had you considered that for your house: his and hers dressing rooms?"
"No," she smiles. "Anyway, there'd be no one to use the 'his' room and I don't have enough clothes to need a separate room for them." She returns to studying the plans. "You know, if this was her room, Lady, er, Blyth's room then seeing her ghost here makes sense; the ghost was replaying something terrible that happened."
"Is that all a ghost is, I wonder: just a replay of something intense and emotional?" I muse. "Is that why I felt more sadness than terror by the end?"
"Perhaps," she replies, a little distractedly, "though I guess it might also be the spirit of the dead person stuck reliving particularly emotional or traumatic events, unable to move on. Ooh, look: the room I was given used to be the Governess's room."
"How very kinky!" I answer, saying the first thought that comes to mind. The idea that a ghost is actually a dead person's spirit is quite upsetting, especially thinking of the boy William crying. On the other hand, maybe I was experiencing Lady's Blyth's memory of the event.
"Not that sort of Governess," she replies, slapping my hand playfully and distracting me. "A governess helped to look after a child but, unlike a nanny, she was mainly a teacher. For girls in wealthy families the Governess would usually be their only teacher, while boys would sometimes have a governess until they went to boarding school."
"How old would that be?" I ask. I don't think William's age was mentioned in the story Alison told Mum.
"Ten or eleven I think but it might have been younger, I'm not sure."
"You seem very knowledgeable about this stuff."
"You'll have to blame my love of historical fiction books, I'm afraid."
I tidy up the papers from the bed, placing them on the bedside table and we turn out the lights before settling down under the covers. Our shoulders and arms touch, inevitably in the rather narrow double bed and her lower leg brushes mine. It feels so very comfortable and safe that I cannot help wriggling a little bit closer to her as we talk quietly about favourite books and films.
We quieten as tiredness builds. However, though I am very comfortable and happy, I struggle to find sleep, my mind restless. I should have called Rick, or texted him at least, but somehow everything – him, work, the BBC and the programme, even home and London itself – all seem like a different planet. I feel captured by events here, both the supernatural and the earthly, and it feels scary and exciting and... mysterious, all mixed up together.
The moon outside gives just enough light to see the vague outline of her sleeping face: she looks beautiful and so peaceful. I drift into a doze eventually; perhaps I even sleep a little. It doesn't feel as if it lasts long when I am woken again by the cries. "Ma-aaaa!" The sound chills me once again but this time there is no wondering if I imagined as I see the gleam of Ruth's eyes, wide open in the dark.
"Was that..?" she asks, her voice a tight whisper.
"Yes," I breathe as under the covers our hands meet and clasp in mutual reassurance. I wait for the next cry.
"Maaa-maa!" Tonight I am ready, looking over Ruth towards the door, and see the pale shape coalesce into existence: the same white robe and wavy hair rippling down her back. The sharp intake of breath tells me Ruth sees it too and there is a tiny flutter of relief within me that this is not all just my imagination. "Bear-aaaa... Maamaa..." However much I anticipate them the cries retain the power to shock me each time. "Maaaamaaaaa! Bea-aaaaa! Heeelll meeeee!"
The fear, the abject terror in the voice still distresses me, much as it does the shade of Lady Blyth as I watch her fists beat the same silent, ghostly tattoo on the door as she again futilely seeks to escape and return to her suffering child. Resting against Ruth I can feel her flinch too, telegraphing her upset at the sounds and sight. "MAAA-MAAaaa! Maaa... Bea-aaa... M-Maaa..." The cries reach their crescendo and begin fading, growing weaker as, the same as last night, the woman becomes frantic, "Maaaa... Mama!"
I sit up to see the slumped form of Lady Blyth crumpled on the floor raise its, her, head and tip it back in the same thin cry as yesterday. "Lady, I'm so sorry for you," I say quietly. I am startled as the figure appears to react to my words, her head turning towards me and her hand lifting, she seems to see me even as she fades. Had the ghost really reacted to my voice?
I find I have been holding my breath and let it out with a sigh and a shiver; my skin is chilling rapidly as the nervous sweat evaporates. Ruth makes a sharp sound, half gasp, half sob. "Shit, that was horrible!" and I can see her cheeks glisten with tears in the dim light. Without a moment's thought I lie back down and wrap my arms around her to hug her tightly. She responds in kind, hugging me back with her head pressing into the curve of my neck. I kiss her cheek as I make soothing sounds. It makes me happy to be able to comfort her after she looked after me. "Thank you," she says.
"It makes a change for me to be looking after you," I reply, "but you're right, it is horrible and it had me in tears too last night. I find it easier to be brave with you here."
"Is that what you feel being here, just brave?" she asks. It is strange question.
"Well, no... not just brave; I feel very happy and comfortable. Why?"
Ruth reaches up and brushes my cheek with her fingertips, a startlingly pleasurable feeling. Her breath is warm and soft on my skin. I look into her eyes; in the darkness the whites are faintly glistening around the dark depths. I'm not aware that either of us moves but our noses brush gently. Her fingers are in my hair. "Because I really want to give you a kiss," she whispers, our mouths so close that I can feel her words on my lips.
"Er, okay," is all I manage before our mouths come together. I tense, briefly, but then start to enjoy the feel of her lips on mine, so warm and soft and everything you could want with a kiss; almost as if, though I hadn't known it, this was what I had desired all along. I have such an upsurge of affection for this woman, for the warmth and tenderness in her that I haven't felt from anyone for such a long time. Our lips part and I press my cheek against hers as we hold tight.
It is like being a teenager again as the emotions of finding something new and special fill me. The idea that I, as an adult, could feel such intense friendship and affection for another woman is amazing: it is like having a best friend once again. It could just be all that's happened, the fear and strangeness countered by her kindness and openness has made our time together more emotionally intense than anything I've experienced in years. Perhaps when I go back to London it'll all settle down and I'll simply have a new friend living in Cornwall...
I open my eyes, waking into darkness as cold air infiltrates the bedclothes. Ruth is no longer cuddled against me and I feel the mattress move as she evidently climbs out. I look up at her, dimly visible in the almost pitch dark room, the moon no longer shining on the curtains. "What's the matter Ruth?" My voice is husky with sleep.
"Much as I love sharing the bed with you, Beth dear, I ought to head to my room if there aren't to be any awkward questions in the morning." I want to tell her not to go, to come back into the warmth with me, but she has a point. We could be filming down here in a few weeks and comments from Alison Curnow about Ruth and I sleeping together could be embarrassing, to say the least, especially with my, well boyfriend I suppose, Rick.
"I suppose so," I agree reluctantly. "At least we can have breakfast together. Sleep well Ruth, love," I tell her. She bends and our cheeks brush as we kiss, not on the mouth this time but more chastely. She turns and I hear her soft, careful footsteps and she moves to the door. As the door opens I'm half blinded by the seemingly dazzling light from the landing and I reflexively shut my eyes.
"Night, night Bethany." The door gives a gentle squeak as she pulls it closed but I barely have time to settle back down before it jerks open again. "Beth, quick, come here," Ruth calls in an urgent whisper, "there's something down there!" Slightly bemused, I slip out of bed and hurry over. She nods across the wide landing towards the banister and the open void to the hall below. I peer through the balustrades, rising on tiptoes to see down into the dim-lit hall where a shadowy form stands. I watch in dread as it turns and, even with the soft-focus blurriness of a ghost, the cold, cruel-featured face of Sir Lovell instantly recognisable. My moan of fear releases the breath I'd been holding.
"Arabella!" Sir Lovell shouts and I am startled to hear a ghostly voice speak actual words; Lady Blyth's ghost had been virtually silent. This voice, though it seems real at first, has the same strange acoustic of the crying child, as if coming from the hall and yet also from beside and behind me as well. However, where the crying stirred the heart with pity at the suffering it embodied, his voice chills the soul with its implacable malice.
I tremble as I feel the same vicious hatred as on Bodmin Moor and reach out to Ruth for support. "Arabella, come here you mealy-mouthed cunt!" he shouts and there is a movement to the left when a dark-clad, dark haired female form emerges from the corridor that leads to Ruth's room. For a moment I think one of the other guests has been disturbed by the noise but the woman has the same indistinctness as the Lady: she too is a ghost. She moves to the head of the stairs and descends two steps before looking down into the hall. "Yes, Sir Lovell?" she asks. Her voice is soft but I think I can hear the barely-suppressed fear she is trying to control.
"Why are you still here, bitch?" His hate-filled voice cuts through me. "I ordered you and your enfeebling, book-learned morality gone from here yesterday. My son has no need of a woman who's good only for teaching him how to be a simpering milksop. He's off to school soon and in the meantime I mean to teach him what it is to be a man. Now, get out before I take my horsewhip to you!"
Suddenly coldness engulfs me and my sight seems to dim and grow misty; the icy chill is so intense it makes me gasp. Worse than the chill is the sickening sense of desperate fear and sadness that borders on despair. Ruth turns to me at the sound, a look of horror appearing on her face as she steps abruptly away. Blinking furiously I try to clear my vision and, as clarity returns, I see Lady Blyth's ghost materialize in front of me to head across the landing towards the stairs. The sense of hopelessness lifts as I remind myself that these are simply echoes of past events and not real in the here and now.
"No, Lovell, please," she begs and I hear her voice for the first time. "Until William must go, please, let her stay for his sake and mine." I take nervous steps forward, following Lady Blyth, both wanting and not wanting to see again into the hall below. Sir Lovell looks up, a momentary expression of surprise on his cruel face as he looks towards Lady Blyth and me, stood just behind her.
"Silence, woman, I shall not be gainsaid in this. She will be gone inside the hour or she shall know my displeasure, as shall you."
The dark clothed woman, Arabella, returns dejectedly up the stairs even as Lady Blyth hurries to her. The two women cling together and I see Arabella is slightly taller and thinner that Lady Blyth.
"Those poor women." Ruth whispers but in the silence of the sleeping hotel, her voice seems loud. The two women's heads towards us, a look of surprise and fear readable in their wide eyes and open mouths, and I feel my heart start to race again: what new and horrible thing will Ruth and I see this time? We draw close, our hands instinctively clasping in mutual support as the two ghostly women stand stock-still, staring directly towards us. I turn my head and glance backwards but whatever these apparitions can see is invisible to me. As I turn back towards them, I notice Ruth did the same thing but also that the two spectres are now starting to fade, exactly the way the ghost in my room did, as the ghost of Arabella pulls away hurriedly, grasping the Lady's hand to tug her back down the corridor from which she emerged.
"I don't give a fuck what Alison bloody Curnow thinks, we're not going to spend the rest of tonight each on our own!" I tell Ruth quietly but firmly.
"I wish I could argue but that... demonic man and seeing the ghost of the Lady walk through you... god that was horrible."
"She, it... walked through me?" I ask, aghast. "Something certainly felt horrible, but I didn't realize. Come on, I just want to hide under the covers with you." I lead the way back into my room, to the faint, residual heat of the bed into which we both climb. Gradually the chill leaves us and the reassuring solidity of Ruth is comforting as I spoon against her back with my arm resting around her waist. I feel tired and wrung out: I need sleep but for a long while it eludes me. I hear Ruth's breathing settle into the soft, steady rhythm of slumber. Please, no more haunting tonight. I think of Ebenezer Scrooge begging the ghost of Jacob Marley that the three spirits might visit all at once so that he can then sleep. If our hauntings have a purpose, I cannot fathom it, though they seem to have brought Ruth and I close, which is one good thing. I snuggle a little closer to her, take a slow, deep breath and try to relax.