Free Winter’s Children by Leah Fleming Page A

land for grazing and develop the farm buildings, but for what? Without stock Wintergill would no longer be a living entity, but who would take on the burden of its repair when he was gone?
    Evie had never been in such a rambling house, with passageways you could ride a bike along, and all those grand faces looking down at her from the walls. There were ladies in funny hats and old men with moustaches and funny collars. There were photos of children on horseback, sitting stiffly in white frilly dresses and floppy hats just like in
The Railway Children.
There were lines of ladies in sticky-out skirts, who were scowling at her.
    The house smelled of smoke, not of soap like the Side House, and as she climbed the stairs she could sniff sweet lavender wafting up the stairs so she turned round. There was a lady, staring ahead, in black skirts all bunched up and her hair hidden under a cap. She was carrying a bunch of pointed feathers tied up like a brush.
    Evie paused to point out the lady. ‘Who’s that down there?’ she asked, pulling her mother’s sleeve.
    Mummy turned and leaned over the banister rail. ‘Who’s where?’
    Evie looked but the lady had disappeared. ‘There was a lady watching us,’ she whispered.
    ‘It must be Mrs Snowden, she told us to pop in for coffee.’
    ‘No, it wasn’t her. It was a lady with feathers,’ she insisted, so Mummy felt her forehead.
    ‘If you say so, muppet. Nobody’s there now. Does this place have ghosts?’ she asked Mr Grumpy. He was waiting at the top of the stairs.
    ‘Hundreds, but I’ve never seen one in here. Have you spotted someone?’ he asked, looking over her head.
    ‘I’m not in the least bit psychic … only wish I were,’ Mummy said.
    ‘I did see a lady at the bottom of the stairs, I did,’ Evie protested. Why would no one believe her?
    ‘There’s a fair few of them up these stairs giving you the eye,’ Mr Grumpy laughed. ‘Their eyes follow you from every angle … Old Jacob there, my great-grandfather, he could tell you a few tales, and that’s his wife … they say she was a witch.’ He pointed to a lady with black eyes and poky bonnet.
    Evie was indignant. That wasn’t the lady with the feather brush. She spun round to see if she was there again. The upstairs was disappointing. There were no rocking horses or toys, no secret hidy-holes. It was dark and sneezy, and she was hungry.
    ‘Can I go and find Mrs Snowden now?’ she asked. ‘I’ll carry the basket back, if you like …’
    ‘Your mother did invite us to call …’ Mummy was being very polite to Mr Grumpy.
    ‘Downstairs, turn left down the corridor to the door at the end. She has her own kitchen,’ he replied, and Evie shot down the stairs two at a time.
    She was glad they slept in the Side House and not up those creepy stairs, miles from the living room. The Side House was bright and cosy, and she could hear Mummy down the stairs. Suddenly she smelled the lavender again and stopped. The woman in the black skirt was walking ahead, ignoring her, walking straight through the wall as if it wasn’t there. Evie blinked. This was a strange house, and if she told Mummy what she had just seen no one would believe that either.
    Then she remembered the story Mummy was reading to her of the Brontë children, who made secret little drawings and stories. This was going to be her very own secret to put in her drawing book. She would write in tiny words and pictures, copying what Emily, Charlotte and Anne were doing. She was going to be a spy in Wintergill and find out if there were any more smelly ladies walking into walls.
    ‘What are you doing?’ Evie was watching Mrs Snowden chopping carrots and apples into a bowl on her kitchen table. ‘I’ve been making Christmas puddings with carrots and apples, raisins, currants and nuts, all mixed up together,’ she said, pointing to a baking bowl full of a gloopy mixture. On the table were a line of pots waiting to be filled. ‘Now I’ve got to