Free House of Echoes by Barbara Erskine Page A

his thumb firmly held in his mouth. ‘Nice house, Tom?’ She smiled at him encouragingly. They were looking at a pile of old books.
    ‘Tom go down.’ He reached out for her long sweater and wound his fingers into it.
    ‘We’ll go down in a minute, to make Daddy some coffee –’ She broke off. Somewhere nearby she heard a child’s laugh. There was a scuffle of feet running, then silence.
    ‘Boy.’ Tom informed her hopefully. He peered round her shyly.
    Joss swallowed. ‘There aren’t any boys here, Tom Tom.’ But of course, there must be. Boys from the village. The house had been empty so long it would have been very strange if no one had found their way in to explore the old place.
    ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who’s there?’
    There was silence.
    ‘Sammy?’ She remembered the name out of nowhere; out of the dark. ‘Sammy, are you there?’ The silence was intense. It no longer seemed to be the silence of emptiness; it was a listening, enquiring silence.
    ‘Mummy, look.’ Tom tugged at her sweater. ‘Flutterby!’ A ragged peacock butterfly, woken by the heat of the sun on the glass was fluttering feebly against the window, its wings shushing faintly, shedding red-blue dust.
    ‘Poor thing, it’s trapped.’ Joss looked at it sadly. To let it go out into the cold would mean certain death.

    The laughter came from the other end of the attic this time; pealing, joyous, followed again by the sound of feet. Tom laughed. ‘See boys,’ he cried. ‘Me wants to see boys.’
    ‘Mummy wants to see boys too,’ Joss agreed. She stooped and picked him up, abandoning the butterfly as she pulled open the door which separated this room from the next. ‘They shouldn’t be here. We’re going to have to tell them to go home for their lunch –’ She broke off. The next room, larger than the rest, was the last. Beyond it, out of the high windows she could look down on the stableyard, seeing the doors pulled wide where Luke was standing in the coach house entrance talking to a strange man. Joss swung round. ‘Where have those naughty boys gone?’
    ‘Naughty boys gone.’ Tom echoed sadly. He too was staring round, tears welling in his eyes. This was where the sound of the children had come from without a doubt, but the room was empty even of the clutter which had stood in some of the others. The boards, sloping with age, were dusty. They showed no foot marks.
    ‘Tom, I think we’ll go downstairs.’ She was uneasy. ‘Let’s go and make Daddy his coffee, then you can go and call him for me.’ She backed towards the door. Suddenly she didn’t want to meet these hidden children after all.
       
    The morning of their first informal supper party three days later Luke pulled open the cellar door and switched on the lights. Tom was asleep upstairs when he had dragged Joss away from her polishing. ‘Let’s have a real look at that wine. We’ll see if we can find something decent to drink tonight.’
    Running down the creaking staircase ahead of her he stared round. The cellar was cold and smelled strongly of damp. A preliminary glance a few days earlier had to their excitement told them the cellar contained a great deal of wine; racks of bottles, bins and cases stretched away into the darkness of a second cellar beyond the first. ‘Joss?’ He turned and looked for her.
    Joss was standing at the top of the stairs.
    ‘Joss, come on. Help me choose.’
    She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Luke. No.’ She took a step backwards. She couldn’t explain her sudden revulsion. ‘I’ll go and put on the coffee or something.’
    He stared up at the doorway. ‘Joss? What’s wrong?’ But she had gone. He shrugged. Turning he stood in front of the first winerack and stared at it. Joss’s father had obviously had a good eye. He recognised some of the vintages, but this would need an expert to look at it one day. Perhaps David Tregarron would advise him when he came down to see them. David’s passion for wine, even