A Step Back in Time
Chapter Sixteen

“Thanks for holding the fort yesterday,” said Max. “I had a bit of a family crisis and needed to take urgent annual leave. Anything to report back? Any problems?” He looked smart as always, dressed in a dark suit with a faint silver stripe running through it. His cream shirt open at the neck showed a mat of chest chair—thank God no medallion, though—which as usual I studiously avoided looking at and concentrated instead at a point just to the left of his ear.

Huh, family crisis, I thought. What, with a Barbie doll? But I shook my head and said, “No, nothing. I just got on with the work that you left for me. I posted out all the letters and finally got all the filing done.”

“Brilliant. Thanks, Hannah. Now then, have you time for dictation?”

I nodded as I sat down on my usual chair opposite him and prepared myself with notebook and pencil.

I wasn’t feeling good today, not after the awful experience as Ursula in her supposedly happy newly wedded life with Henry Stafford. He had struck her so hard that I was still reeling from the shock. Some of the things that he’d said about my mother, Margaret Pole, were bothering me too. I mean, there was no way that she had been a witch. Ridiculous!

Gazing beyond Max’s head out of the window, I saw that the rain from early this morning had stopped and the sun was valiantly trying to shine as it dodged amongst the clouds, some of which still looked a little black around the edges. A few cars cruised by on the old Havant Road, and a man walked past wearing a waterproof walking jacket and carrying a rucksack, that hung from his back like a child being given a piggy back.

“Are you okay, Hannah?” I looked up at Max, who actually did look genuinely concerned. A faint scent emanated from him, sort of citrusy and sweet, which I assumed was aftershave, as he looked a touch more clean shaven than usual.

Huh, I thought maliciously. Probably for the benefit of his latest Barbie doll!

“Not really,” I replied. “I’m a bit tired. But in any case, I have an apology to give you.”

“Really?” he said, beaming all over his face, and when I didn’t reply straight away, he said, puzzled, “What for?”

I told him everything that Sarah had told me about Gregory Walsh. “So you see,” I said, “I’ve no choice but to believe you now, have I?”

“Why? Because Sarah, also known as Elizabeth the First, Queen of England, told you that I am indeed Gregory Walsh, lowly gardener?” He chuckled then, which actually did make me smile, my first of the day. He leaned forward, his forearms on his desk. “Seriously, though, I told you it was the truth, Hannah. And I think I gave you definite proof of that too.” He glanced down towards his chest, and I knew that he was referring to the little crescent moon scar that both he and Gregory had just below their left nipple.

“Yeah, okay then. So as you truly are Gregory, then tell me why he’s disappeared from Ursula’s life. Where is he?”

“I’m not sure if I can tell you that, Hannah.” He sat back in his chair and put both hands behind his head so that his shirt stretched tight against his chest, making my heart beat just that little bit faster. Why did he have to do that? “If it hasn’t happened to you yet in that life, then....” He let the words hang in the air, unsure of what to say next.

“That’s rubbish, Max. The truth of it is that you don’t want me to know, do you?”

He frowned and looked unsure as he sat forward again. “It’s not that. It’s just not right to tell you things that happened in the past that you weren’t part of. It’s difficult to explain.”

“Is he dead, Max? Is that what it is? You can tell me. I have to know some time.”

“Of course he’s dead—they all died,” he said impatiently. “They lived centuries ago. Ursula is dead too.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it isn’t. Has he been murdered, and has it got something to do with Henry Stafford?”

He said impatiently, but with a slightly worried look, “Good God, Hannah, what a question! Look, I know this is important, but can we meet after work and talk about it? I must get this dictation done today. It’s pretty urgent now, and with not being here yesterday, I’ve got stuff to catch up on.”

Before I could help myself I said sarcastically, “Oh, where do you want to meet, Max, Havanti Coffee House?”

Choosing to ignore the sarcasm and probably not really understanding it as yet, he replied, “Hey, that’s a good idea. I went there yesterday—great place. Actually, I thought of you while I was there, because it’s similar to the cafe bar we went to in Cosham—that place called Mooch. Do you remember, Hannah, the place where you walked out on me?” He grinned mischievously.

Ignoring the bit about walking out on him, and because other matters were at the forefront of my mind, I said, “Yes, I remember Mooch very well, Max. Actually, I saw you in the new cafe bar yesterday. You were sitting at a table in the window.”

“Yes, I was. You should have come in, I would have introduced you—”

“Oh yes, Max.” I began to stand up, forgetting all about the dictation that he so urgently wanted me to take and, almost throwing my notebook and pencil onto his desk in frustration, said, “What would you have done? Introduced me to your latest Barbie doll?”

For a split second Max looked blank, but a slow dawning realization began to come over his face and he started to laugh, proper real laughter that brought tears to his eyes so that he had to wipe them away with his knuckles.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” I said, totally riled up now and prepared for a fight.

“Oh Hannah, honestly. Yeah, I know what you mean. She looks similar to your sister, I suppose. All that long blonde hair and tanned skin. I noticed that she got a lot of longing looks from some of the male customers—because of the short skirt, I suppose—but—”

“Yeah, like all of the women that you ever hook up with!” I stated sullenly.

“Well, okay then, Hannah, break the mold,” he said, standing up and putting his palms down on the desk with a slap. “You don’t look like a Barbie doll, so why don’t you go out with me?”

“You must be joking,” I said between clenched teeth, my arms straight at my sides and fists balled. “I wouldn’t go out with you in a month of Sundays.” Now where had that expression come from? Preparing to leave the room now, I turned towards him and said with venom, “Anyway, Ken, how can I go out with you now that you’ve got a new Barbie?”

Holding my head high, I stalked across the room feeling quite pleased with my parting shot, when Max said, with just a hint of laughter in his voice, “Well, actually, Hannah, the Barbie that you saw me with in Havanti Coffee House is none other than my sister, Alison. So there!”

I even heard a childish, “Na na na na na,” followed by a lot of laughter as I made my way back to my office.

***

I went home that evening feeling very downhearted, and spent my time applying for jobs, not only as a legal secretary but also as a shop assistant at a bakery in Purbrook called Betty’s Baps. If my own sister could have a career change for a while, then why couldn’t I? I also sent a couple of emails, one to Reynolds & Rhodes in Denmead and the other to the branch in Waterlooville, asking if they had any vacancies for a transfer at the moment.

God knew what Max would say to that, but I really thought that the time had come for us to stop working together. The bricks were finally down, and it seemed at the moment that there was no going back. His sister? Oh my God, did he really expect me to believe that? Unfortunately, he was putting me in mind of a rather large spider sitting in a web spinning tales. And if Max was determined to spend his life as a Ken to his Barbie, then so be it! I had a gut feeling that it was time I backed out of his life for good.

Restlessly I stood up and, switching off my laptop and putting it neatly on the coffee table, peered from the window. The evening had brightened up considerably, and the black edged clouds that had blocked the warmth of the sun earlier had melted away like cotton candy on a tongue, leaving a perfect clear blue sky. I stretched my arms above my head and rolled my shoulders, thinking that perhaps a walk to the park would clear my head a little, as well as earning me just a few Fitbit steps.

People, out in their gardens now that the weather had improved, were busy tidying up, mowing the lawns, weeding the borders, and cutting back unruly plants, making me think of my lover Gregory Walsh. My heart beat that little bit faster at the thought of what might have happened to him, and to his father and sister.

I walked to the bottom of Mitchell Road, past the two story blocks of elderly people’s retirement flats, and then through massive ornate gates and into Bedhampton Park, where I found a bench near to the playground and sat down, automatically turning my face up to the sun. I listened to the children as they played on the swings and the slide, aware of their high-pitched voices and screams as they spun on the merry-go-round until they were blurry as a rain washed window.

After a while the children’s voices began to fade, and I felt a chill like a cold hand against my skin. Opening my eyes I was surprised to find that the sun had gone in behind a huge bank of golden tinged clouds, and that so very suddenly dusk had fallen.

Oh no, not now, I thought as I realized that I was no longer sitting in the sunshine in Bedhampton Park, but that I was in the pretty walled garden on the grounds of Warblington Manor. I wore a heavy black silk lined cloak over my gown, as the air felt chilly even though it was spring time, as daffodils and tulips shone bright yellow, red, and orange in the borders. Gazing up, I saw that stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky, and as a sliver of moon showed its face, I felt a chill run down my spine.

Quickly I got up from where I’d been sitting on the stone bench, my only thought that I should be indoors by now. What on earth was I doing sitting in the walled garden in the near dark? Anybody could be abroad at this hour. Hastily, treading softly, my cloak pulled tightly around me, the hood over my head, I made my way through the shadowy garden, when all at once I saw a figure ahead of me. A figure I recognized immediately, if only by the skinny bowed legs, as my husband, Henry Stafford.

What was he doing creeping around outside at this time? Intrigued, I followed him deeper into the woods and along moon lit paths ankle deep in crispy leaves and muck. I crept behind him for what seemed a long time, as we had come far enough into the woods to arrive at Gregory’s cottage, where I saw that smoke curled lazily from the chimney. I watched as Henry peered through the tiny windows and then, as he must have seen somebody there, backed away quickly and went to stand in the shadows beneath the overhanging branches of the trees.

The cottage door opened suddenly and Gregory stood on the door step in a sliver of candlelight that lit up the tiny back garden. I could see the small wooden pens that he had made with his own hands, and hear chickens clucking and fussing.

“Who is there?” asked Gregory into the blackness. “If there is anybody there, then show yourself.” He walked away from the cottage and through his garden, closer still to the black shape of Henry, who stood hidden in the shadows. I was near enough to touch Gregory as he passed by, but I didn’t, for I had a feeling that I couldn’t be seen and that I was just a bystander, as I had been with my mother, Margaret Pole, on the day of her execution.

“I know you are there, Henry Stafford,” said Gregory quietly. “Show yourself so that we may talk and our differences be reconciled. Look....” He turned a full circle, his arms open wide. “I am unarmed and not dangerous.”

He was no more than an arm’s length from the dark shape of Henry now. There was a long silence, heavy with anticipation, and in a split second, less than a blink of an eye, I saw a flash of silver. Then I heard a heartfelt groan as Gregory’s white shirt blossomed red as the roses he tended so carefully in the gardens of Warblington Manor.

I stifled a scream, my hands covering my mouth as he sank to his knees on the hard ground. He held on to the knife with both hands as, desperately, he tried to wrench it from his chest. But it was too late for, with an anguished sob, he collapsed full length amidst the dust and the dirt. The dark shape that was Henry Stafford melted away into the blackness as if he’d never been there at all.

The very essence of Gregory Walsh was fading rapidly as I knelt beside him and clasped his limp hands in mine. They were cool, and not warm and vibrant as they were the last time we had met. I gazed at his lovely face, at his beautiful full lips that I’d so loved to kiss, and at his eyes that, when we made love, became a muted hazy green.

His breathing was rapid now and he was panting, taking short sharp breaths.

There was a precious split second of recognition as his lips curled into a smile, and he said, “Ursula, my Little Bear, you came!” And then, with one last sigh, he was still, so very still, and I knew he was gone.

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