While leaning on the lichen-covered gate my gaze strayed to the old stone cottage that was almost hidden by the gnarled apple tree whose heavily laden branches nearly touched the ground. Deserted for several years the cottage was rumoured to be haunted.
Once, when a harvest moon filled the heavens, a spectral white shape had been observed flitting across the shadowy unkempt garden. In the village store I had heard whispers that if one peered through the dusty windows, a woman garbed in a drab brown dress, covered by a calico apron, could be seen rocking gently in the chair, which stood next to the unlit fire. She seemed oblivious to the cobwebs and dust that gave the room a neglected air. I don’t know if there was a ghost. I had never seen her.
My finances had been shaky when I moved to the village, but by selling watercolours, and living frugally, I had managed to save enough for a deposit to buy the empty cottage. The countryside was an artist’s paradise. Barren hillsides rose above the green swift-flowing river, and apple and apricot orchards lent a rural atmosphere to what could have been a harsh environment. I rented the neighbouring property. Miners had erected both cottages during the gold rush of the 1860’s. They lay abandoned for over fifty years until an enterprising local farmer decided to refurbish them as farm-laborers’ homes. Slowly mechanization arrived, allowing one man and a tractor to do in a day what had taken two men a week to achieve. The cottages stood empty until the farmer’s entrepreneurial son modernised one and offered it up for rent.
I let my mind wander into the realms of home ownership … a small mortgage, and me painting well into the night to pay for the dream … and somehow found myself standing in the garden of the abandoned cottage. The window frames, which were once painted a deep, almost brick, red, would have complemented the grey stone exterior … schist taken from the nearby hills. The flagstone step of the cottage was covered in moss and dangerous when wet, and two casement windows stood to attention on either side of a solid wooden door. I pictured a brass knocker on the door and red-checkered curtains at the windows. In my mind’s eye I grew a garden … yellow roses clambering around the front porch, delicately scented stocks, wallflowers, Sweet William and pansies creating a colourful foreground against a backdrop of rusticity. The apple trees in the orchard I imagined severely pruned into fertile submission. In spring daffodils and tulips would vie for space alongside the lilac bushes, and hanging from the old walnut tree I envisaged a swing … a simple rope swing with a wooden seat.
My finances had been shaky when I moved to the village, but by selling watercolours, and living frugally, I had managed to save enough for a deposit to buy the empty cottage. The countryside was an artist’s paradise. Barren hillsides rose above the green swift-flowing river, and apple and apricot orchards lent a rural atmosphere to what could have been a harsh environment. I rented the neighbouring property. Miners had erected both cottages during the gold rush of the 1860’s. They lay abandoned for over fifty years until an enterprising local farmer decided to refurbish them as farm-laborers’ homes. Slowly mechanization arrived, allowing one man and a tractor to do in a day what had taken two men a week to achieve. The cottages stood empty until the farmer’s entrepreneurial son modernised one and offered it up for rent.
I let my mind wander into the realms of home ownership … a small mortgage, and me painting well into the night to pay for the dream … and somehow found myself standing in the garden of the abandoned cottage. The window frames, which were once painted a deep, almost brick, red, would have complemented the grey stone exterior … schist taken from the nearby hills. The flagstone step of the cottage was covered in moss and dangerous when wet, and two casement windows stood to attention on either side of a solid wooden door. I pictured a brass knocker on the door and red-checkered curtains at the windows. In my mind’s eye I grew a garden … yellow roses clambering around the front porch, delicately scented stocks, wallflowers, Sweet William and pansies creating a colourful foreground against a backdrop of rusticity. The apple trees in the orchard I imagined severely pruned into fertile submission. In spring daffodils and tulips would vie for space alongside the lilac bushes, and hanging from the old walnut tree I envisaged a swing … a simple rope swing with a wooden seat.
I was sure that any occupant of a country cottage would simply make friends with a wandering spirit. Those who had encountered the ghost said it was a woman and wondered why she had chosen that cottage. I did not consider it haunted … there was neither sounds of rattling chains nor haunting cries in the night. I thought it strange that those aware of her presence were afraid of the house, calling it spooky, and keeping their distance.
Rain began to fall as I hurried back through the rickety gate with its creaking rusty hinges, and picking up the cane washing-basket perched on my doorstep, I quickly unpegged the laundry, and carried it into the kitchen. I carefully folded the old white sheet, my grandmother’s brown dress, and the faded calico apron that she wore over it, and as part of my preparations to move next door, returned them to the battered tin trunk where I stored all my treasures.
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