One Summer at Deer’s Leap. Elizabeth Elgin

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      ‘Good girl. That’s what I like. Unbridled enthusiasm. Got anything of a storyline worked out?’

      ‘We-e-ll, what would you say if I told you it would have Deer’s Leap in it, and the year would be 1944? Will war books be old hat by the time I get it written?’

      ‘Dunno. Depends on who’s writing them, and the genre. Would it be blood and guts, sort of, or a love story?’

      ‘A love story – and tragic.’

      ‘A World War Two Romeo and Juliet, you mean?’

      ‘Mm. I was talking to Bill on Wednesday night. He told me there had been a lot of crashes hereabouts and that Acton Carey wasn’t a very safe place to be.’

      ‘And you feel strongly enough about that period to write about it with authority? There are a lot of people alive still who would soon let you know if you got anything wrong.’

      ‘I’ll tell you something, then.’ It was my turn to take a long, deep breath. ‘When I was at the library I saw a book about all the Bomber Command airfields in Lancashire during the war and bombing raids flown from Acton Carey are all listed in it. Someone went to a lot of trouble to get all the details. The Lancasters must have gone somewhere else, because in July 1944 the American Army Air Corps took the place over.’

      ‘I wonder where those squadrons of Lancasters went.’ Jeannie was getting interested.

      ‘I don’t know. But I did see the war memorial in the village. Remember Danny said the names of a crew that crashed hereabouts were included with the local dead?’

      ‘Yes. But I wonder why one particular crew, when there must have been a lot of crashes …’

      Jeannie was interested, all right. It gave me the courage to jump in feet first and say, ‘I can’t tell you that, but I’m going – just this once – to talk about someone we agreed not to talk about again.’

      ‘Your ghost? I knew we’d get round to him sooner or later!’

      ‘His name was Jack Hunter,’ I rushed on. ‘There’s a J. J. Hunter on that memorial and the date is 8 June. It was one of the last raids flown before the Royal Air Force left Acton Carey. In the book it says it was a daylight raid on a flying bomb site in France.’

      ‘So why can’t he accept it? Doesn’t he know he’s on a war memorial?’

      ‘I don’t think he’s grasped the fact yet that he’s dead. I think,’ I said, not daring to look her in the face because I didn’t think, I knew, ‘that the girl who lived here and the pilot were – well, an item.’

      ‘And you want to write about them, even though you know he was killed?’

      ‘I’d use different names. No one would know.’

      ‘Except the girl who once lived here if she’s still alive. It’s just the kind of book she’d be interested in, she having had first-hand experience, kind of.’

      ‘I said I’d disguise it. There is a story there, and I’d handle it very gently, Jeannie.’

      ‘Yes, I do believe you would. You aren’t a little in love with that pilot, are you?’

      ‘Don’t be an idiot! Why would I want to fall in love with a ghost? Be a bit frustrating, to say the least!’

      ‘From what you’ve said, he seems the exact opposite of your Piers.’

      ‘He isn’t my Piers. I’ll admit we had something going once, but it’s wearing a bit thin – on my part, that is. But I don’t find Jack Hunter attractive!’ I crossed my fingers as I said it.

      I lay in bed with the windows wide open, listening to the strange, waiting stillness outside; mulling over what we had talked about. And I thought about Jack Hunter too, and his slimness and the height of him and that I had found him attractive. Maybe that was why I wasn’t in the least afraid of him – or what he was. Excited, maybe, when he was around, but no way did he frighten me. That pilot was exactly my type. I’d already decided, hadn’t I, that if I’d been around these parts fifty-odd years ago, I’d have given Susan Smith a run for her money?

      Jack Hunter danced perfectly, I knew it, and I felt an ache of regret that I would never dance closely with him. Then I felt relief that every time we kissed I would never know the fear it might be our last.

      ‘Stupid!’ I hissed into the pillow. Not only did I see ghosts, but I’d fallen in love with one!

      I plumped my pillow and turned it over. I wasn’t in love with the man! I only wanted to be, with someone very like him; someone who was flesh and blood and whose kisses were real!

      ‘Deer’s Leap,’ I whispered indulgently, ‘what have you done to me …?’

       Chapter Six

      I awoke early in need of a mug of tea, after which I would throw open all the downstairs windows and doors – get a draught through the house.

      August mornings should be fresh, not oppressive. I looked towards the hills as I let Hector out. Clouds hung low over the fells and there was little blue sky to be seen.

      I put down milk for the cats and the clink of the saucers soon had them crossing the yard in my direction. Tommy had not slept on my bed last night, but then cats are known to find the warmest – or the coolest – places and he’d probably slept outside.

      I drank my tea pensively, trying to push the words out of my mind that were already crowding there. Today and tomorrow were holidays – even if the weather seemed intent on spoiling them.

      Did bad weather stop aircraft taking off and landing during the war? I frowned. Fog certainly was bad – it could still disrupt an airport – but how about snow on runways, and ice? Perhaps conditions like that gave aircrews a break from flying; a chance to go to the nearest pub or picture house. Or scan the talent at some dancehall, looking for a partner who might even be willing to slip outside into the blackout. Did they snog, in those days, or did they pet, or neck? Things – words, even – had changed over the years. Words! My head was full of them again; words to find their way into the next book, even though I was barely halfway through the current one!

      I showered and dressed quickly and quietly, then told Hector to stay. I was going to the end of the dirt road to leave money for the milkman.

      ‘Good boy.’ I gave him a pat, and some biscuits, then shut the kitchen door. If Jack Hunter was at the kissing gate, I didn’t want trouble, even though dogs are supposed to be frightened of ghosts. Cats, too.

      As I closed the white gate behind me, it was evident that no one was there. The kissing gate was newly painted in shiny black. Perversely, I touched it with a forefinger and it swung open easily.

      There were letters in the wooden box, mostly bills or circulars. Only one, a postcard view of Newquay, was addressed to me.

       Having a good time. Weather variable. Hope all СКАЧАТЬ