Unhallowed Ground by Gillian White Read Free Book Online Page A

had been done up, the stone work had been pointed, and even with the snow on top the thatch was newer and neater. There were bushes in the garden, whoever owned this house cared. Up the hill, further on from the ford, was a fourth house, another cottage but larger than Stephen’s. The lights at the windows reminded Georgie that it was already dusk.
    The stepping stones, the only possible route to the gate, were white and treacherous with frosted water. She crossed in a crablike motion, half crouched, dragging poor Lola by the collar. In daylight she would have looked ridiculous, but in this half dark nobody could see, and why would they want to anyway? Georgie cursed to herself as the hem of her duffel coat trailed in the fast flowing water that bubbled up under jigsaws of ice. The key was more suited to the keep of a castle than a humble cottage. It was loose in the lock and hung heavily in her hand. She turned it, patted the spaniel encouragingly, and went in.
    Stephen had clearly died without giving a toss as to who might come later.
    The light—she hadn’t realized that switches like this one still existed, round and painted—at least the light went on. And with the light rushed the smell of neglect and decay, of damp and ancient stone. She left the door wide open when she crossed the stream precariously once more and emptied the contents of the car out onto the grass. She was glad of the interior light, which cast soft patches of yellow on white.
    How much more fun this would be if somebody else were around. Even Mark the responsible would have done. Concerned as ever, he had asked to come with her, but Georgie had refused. She blinked away the pitiful sight of the hurt in his eyes, she had more than enough to contend with already. But still she muttered to herself, ‘I’m sorry, Mark, I’m sorry.’
    I can’t love you, I’m sorry, I can’t.
    Then, like a ferryman, it was backwards and forwards across the stream; the bedding was particularly cumbersome, she couldn’t see where she was going, and in the end she flung it across on a wing and a prayer. By the time she’d finished, Georgie was sweating hard from her exertions and from the awful thought of missing a step and falling into that freezing-cold water. Her breath, where it hit the air, froze in white balloons. She was desperate to get inside and close the cottage door behind her, no matter what comforts it lacked.
    Her voice was winded and weary. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Lola. OK, OK, we should never have come. But at least we’re out of the car, and I’ll get the place warmed up in a minute.’
    For a sensitive man, for a man who presumably spent his life devoted to art, Stephen was remarkably unaffected by his spartan surroundings: there was no ordered harmony here. The lampshade which hung from the central beam of the long low sitting room was of yellowing-white plastic imitating raffia, and long-dead flies were stuck to the flaky rim. No efforts towards homeliness had been attempted. Beside the blackened hearth was one dowdy armchair in a loose, ill-fitting brocade. Someone had piled papers and magazines upon it: a half-hearted attempt to clear up? A limp rug of mottled purples bobbled across the uneven stone floor, and to one side of the room stood a gateleg table, heavily lacquered and chipped. On this, where the piles of books did not meet, there were layers of dust. Two upright chairs were pushed neatly up to the table and Georgie could only wonder who had met and talked here, or eaten here, and what sort of food would be served at a table which lacked such charm or style. Frozen beefburgers and chips?
    No vases. No lamps. No personal trinkets, ornaments, photographs, floor cushions. No, not even a clock to mark the passing of life.
    No life.
    What did she want from him, dammit, a note? I must put up with it. I’m here now and I don’t have to stay long. This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? Punishment, harsh and severe?
    The door to