Free The Bay by Di Morrissey Page B

sitting room in the annexe was trickling water. She turned on the torch, deciding to run along the covered walkway to the main house and inspect it. Curly caught up with her and reluctantly padded behind. But as she rattled the side door of the kitchen, the dog began barking.
    Holly looked back, swinging the torch around in the wet blackness. Curly was standing out in the garden, barking wildly into the storm, looking up towards the roof.
    She called the old dog, who hated storms, but Curly took no notice. There was a warning sound to her bark that alerted Holly. She ran out onto the lawn, her nightdress soaked through in seconds.
    â€˜What is it, old girl? What are you barking at, Curly?’
    The dog continued to bark at the upper level. It was in darkness, the outline of the roof barely visible in the storm-blacked sky. But as Holly was about to turn away, the beam from the lighthouse swung again over the trees, showing in dim relief the top of the house. Holly was looking straight at the widow’s walk. In the seconds of light she clearly saw a dark figure silhouetted – a figure leaning out scanning the sea. Her instant impression was of a woman, dressed in black, her hair streaming behind her.
    Holly grabbed Curly’s collar and began stumbling backwards in shock, oblivious to the water plastering her hair, pouring down her neck, her eyes riveted to the top of the house somewhere in the blackness.
    By the time the beam swung around again the dark shape had gone. Was it ever there? Had she imagined it through the rain?
    She hurried back to the annexe with Curly trotting to keep up with her, slammed the door and went through the rooms, throwing on the lights. She turned on the radio and went into the shower, dropping her soaking nightgown in a corner.
    Later, wrapped in her bathrobe, a towel around her head, she put the kettle on in the small sitting room and began to dry Curly’s thick wet fur.
    â€˜You saw her too, didn’t you, Curly? Looking out to sea in the storm. Who is she, Curly, who could she be?’
    Holly was not afraid. The shower had helped calm her nerves, and she knew there was no strange woman in the attic. She knew what they’d seen. ‘We’ve seen a ghost,’ she said softly to the dog. ‘I wonder if she’ll come back, Curly. What do you think?’
    Holly lifted her head, suddenly aware that the wind and rain had eased, almost stopped. The kettle whistled. The announcer on the local FM station spoke cheerfully. It was 3.15 am.
    Holly settled Curly in her basket then went back to bed with a mug of tea. She locked the door, left the light on and, propped up against the pillows, she tried to imagine being a wife watching the storm, waiting for her loved one to return from the sea in those pioneering days. She tried to imagine the deep worry that must always be at the back of the woman’s mind, while still having to cope with everyday family life until the wait was over. And how were things then? If it hadn’t been a successful voyage there’d be financial worries. Were they thrilled to be together, or had this woman overly romanticised her seafaring husband? Holly thought of all the times Andrew had been away on business trips, how she’d looked forward to his return, planned a romantic evening, only to have him disappear into his office to finish some drawings or plans. Or else he’d complained he was exhausted, he’d eaten on the plane, and gone straight to sleep. How foolish she’d felt at the untouched candlelit dinner, at wearing sexy perfume and nightwear. Maybe Andrew and the children had been right when they told her to find an interest, get involved in something – women’s clubs, charities. Well, she’d certainly taken on something with Richmond House. And she knew they thought it was all too much for her. Not physically, for Holly was trim and energetic, but perhaps because she’d never had to deal with a