The Eildon Tree
He turned and made his way back along the corridor. I was understandably shaken by this vision and decided maybe it would be better if I left the premises. I could come back in the morning and settle my tab and then return home in the knowledge that I had finally seen the ghost I had waited a lifetime to see. I threw on my clothes and collected my things into my case. Occasional shouts and thumps continued to echo through the building as I made my way downstairs in the half dark. I resolved to spend the rest of the night in my car. I felt uneasy remaining outside The Change House so I drove a short distance into the village centre – I reckoned on it being more populated and a safer place to be than parked outside a haunted inn on a dark and wintry night. Swathed in two jackets and an overcoat, I settled down in a half-seated position and attempted to resume my sleep. It felt as though I had only just dropped-off when a sharp tap on the side window of the car woke me with a start. However, it was now morning and an anxious looking woman was trying to get my attention. ‘Are you alright in there?’ she said as she peered into the car. I wound down the window. ‘Oh, yes, I’m fine, thank you.’ In reality, I wasn’t fine. I had spent the night in my car and was still half frightened out my wits. I was also cold and hungry. ‘Is there anywhere I might get a cup of tea?’ ‘Aye,’ said the woman. ‘There’s a machine at Ronnie’s place – the shop across the way.’ She pointed to a village store which was just taking in its morning delivery of goods. A bit of normality, I thought, after the memory of the night before came back to me in full. Compared with the levels of service I had received at The Change House, the anonymity of a tea and coffee machine was very welcome indeed. Having pressed the button for ‘extra sugar’ I waited for the gurgling sounds to come to a stop before clasping my hands around the paper cup to warm them. ‘It’s a cold morn,’ said the shopkeeper as he watched me sipping my tea-cum-coffeecum-dishwater hybrid of a hot drink. ‘Yes and a rather chilly night. Had to spend it in the car.’ ‘Oh, aye?’ said the shopkeeper as he continued to sort his deliveries. ‘Yes, I was up at The Change House,’ I said, hoping to trigger a conversation which might lead to confirmation that I had met someone from the spirit world. 20
#issue 33 | Winter 2020
‘Oh, aye?’ he repeated. He stopped what he was doing and then addressed me directly. ‘I don’t know why you people keep coming here. There’s nothing to see, you know.’ ‘Oh, but there is,’ I countered. ‘I saw an old man – like the ones they talk about in my book.’ I withdrew the guidebook from my jacket and waved it at him as if it were incontrovertible proof of the existence of ghosts. ‘Which old man would that be?’ he said, chuckling privately to himself. ‘An old man with long grey hair and an ashen face. He stared right past me then he…’ ‘You mean him,’ interrupted the shopkeeper, who was now pointing towards the window. I watched as the elderly man I’d met in The Change House walked past the shop with the same distant look in his eye as he’d had the night before. ‘But he’s…’ I started but the shopkeeper finished the sentence for me. ‘He’s the man you saw last night. That’s Auld Graham. He’s up at The Change House all hours - just sits there staring. Some of us have tried
Poetry
After the Funeral
13
by Vivien Jones (Frances, my sister - 1945 - 2016) At last we are in the bar, somewhere familiar, we pour into the space, those who belong, like dancers who know their starting spot. We, the seldom-seen relatives, welcomed with a drink of something strong and sweet, we stand together talking only to each other. The men have loosened their ties, dumped jackets, the women pile pale blossoming hats on a chair, the children have started to race and shout. We were more at home in the crematorium, its taming quiet more comfortable for strangers, keeping the lid on volume, on unfit laughter. But the girl she was, the girl only I remember she would have laughed out loud, shared the joke, told them to turn the bloody music down, seen our discomfort and pulled us into the crowd, pressed us with tiny sandwiches and cheese straws, been the perfect hostess, had she been there.