Page 3 of Needs Must
‘Ah, there you are,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll have some dinner ready for you as soon as you like. Would you prefer to eat down here or in your room?’
‘Oh, a parlour down here will be perfectly acceptable, Mrs Cooper,’ Donna said, returning her smile. She was a kind and down to earth woman, and Donna had taken an immediate liking to her. So too had Miriam, which was a rare seal of approval. Miriam had been born suspicious and was slow to trust.
But so too was Donna, these days.
Better late than never, she thought with a wry smile. ‘I would not give you more work by having you running up and down the stairs after us,’ she said.
‘It’s no trouble, ducks,’ Mrs Cooper replied. ‘But it’s warm and cosy as you like in the small parlour. Shall we say fifteen minutes? I’ll have some hot water sent up. I dare say you’re anxious to freshen up.’
‘I hate to see you reduced to this,’ Miriam said, tutting as she looked round the room that they shared. It was the best that the tavern had to offer, but it fell way short of Miriam’s standards. Of Donna’s too but what couldn’t be cured must, she supposed, be endured. ‘There’s no justice in this world and that’s a fact.’
‘We shall do well enough at Denmead Cottage,’ Donna said with more conviction than she actually felt. ‘I shall ask Mrs Cooper if she can recommend a lad in need of work to clear the grounds. And someone dependable to fix the roof and do the other urgent repairs too.’
‘Aye, happen that’s what we’ll have to do,’ Miriam said with a resigned sigh.
‘I realise this is a comedown for you as well, Miriam. You are worth more than this and if you feel the need to look for alternative employment that is better suited to your skills, I shall perfectly understand.’
‘What on earth are you saying?’ Miriam turned so abruptly that she spilled hot water over her hand. She muttered an imprecation beneath her breath that the residents of the taproom couldn’t have bettered. ‘How the devil would you protect your interests if it weren’t for me? We’ve been together since you were old enough to put your hair up – through good times and bad.’
‘I am well aware of that, Miriam, and I am monstrously grateful to you. Be that as it may, it seems unreasonable to expect you to lower your standards.’
‘What about your own standards? Your own expectations? Your rights?’ Miriam shook her head emphatically. ‘I know you intend to go after your husband’s avaricious relative, even though you won’t actually admit it for fear of my talking you out of such a hopeless scheme. Which I would not. I understand that you need …’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, it’ll be an uphill battle, you realise that I hope. A battle that you can’t possibly fight alone. No, thank you very much, if Denmead Cottage is good enough for you then it’s good enough for me.’
‘Thank you, Miriam.’ Donna stood and impulsively hugged the older woman. ‘I cannot abide the thought of being without you, but I hope I am not so selfish that I would hold you to your position if you would prefer to quit it.’
‘Tosh!’ Miriam shook out one of Donna’s petticoats vigorously. One of her fewremaining petticoats, Donna thought with a pang of regret. ‘We’ll have no more of that talk, thank you very much.’
A short time later, they made their way back downstairs to the private parlour where supper awaited them. Mrs Cooper beamed at them as she served their soup.
‘Pea and ham hock,’ she said as she ladled generous measures into their bowls. The smell of freshly baked bread, still hot from the oven, caused Donna to salivate. ‘The nights are drawing in and there’s a nip in the air now. Good thick soup is just the thing to keep the warmth in and the spirits up.’
Donna tasted hers and had to agree. She nodded her approval to the hovering landlady. ‘You’re in the right of it, Mrs Cooper. No wonder Mr Cooper seems to be in a permanently good mood. He had the sense to marry a wonderful cook.’
Mrs Cooper beamed at the compliment. ‘Get along with you now. Anyone can make soup.’
Donna refrained from admitting that she couldn’t even boil an egg, much less produce a hearty soup. That situation would of necessity soon have to change. She couldn’t afford to employ a cook and couldn’t expect Miriam to do everything. She was no longer a young woman and suffered from the aches and pains of middle age, but she would never in a million years make such an admission.
‘What can you tell me about Denmead Cottage?’ she asked instead.
‘That old place. Hope you aren’t thinking of taking a lease. It’s been on the market for months, but no one will touch it.’
‘Because it’s falling down?’ Miriam suggested.
‘Not just that.’ Mrs Cooper’s eyes bulged. ‘They say it’s haunted.’
Donna waved the suggestion aside. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘Nor did any of the last four tenants, if half of what I hear is to be believed. Noises in the night, things getting broken, apparitions coming out of nowhere. None of them lasted more than a month or two before running off in terror.’
Donna suppressed a smile, thinking that none of those unfortunate individuals had Miriam as a protector. She wouldn’t put up with what she’d no doubt describe as other worldly nonsense and would look for a plausible explanation. Donna herself briefly considered her own reaction earlier that afternoon, the distinct feeling that someone or something was already in residence. But if that was the case then she’d felt no harm in said resident’s … well, unearthly presence. Besides, desperation and geography had given her no choice but to take the cottage. They had looked at several others in neighbouring villages before coming to Arndale but few had been suitable, and those that were exceeded Donna’s budget.
So Denmead Cottage it would have to be.
Thinking about the supposed haunting with the practical side of her brain, Donna could easily imagine all sorts of noises being created by the wind penetrating the warped windows, given the dilapidated state of the place. The apparitions were, she suspected, a product of too much ale and impressions placed in the heads of previous tenants by exaggerated accounts of ghosts spread by the denizens of the taproom. Locals enjoyed nothing more than perpetuating myths. Donna had been aware of that much before she’d left for Jamaica. Nothing appeared to have changed in the interim.
‘Who is supposed to haunt the place?’ Donna asked, amused. ‘Who owns it for that matter? Mr Potts was rather evasive on that particular point.’
‘The place is owned by a reclusive gentleman by the name of Bagshott. Shuts himself away in a barn of a place on the cliffs overlooking Brighton and he ain’t never at home to nobody. Hasn’t been seen in public for years and has people permanently guarding the grounds of his estate. He shut off a track that had been used forever by all and sundry. A shortcut that helped the earl’s people get into the village, cutting off a good two miles. Bagshott’s keepers shoot at anyone who tries to use it now. Word is that it caused an almighty ruckus with the old earl, the present earl’s father, but Bagshott owns that land and wouldn’t give way. We all wonder what it is he has to hide.’
