Okay, the sodding new thing. I cannot get this first chapter to work. So I'm falling back on the age-old does the second chapter work better. So, let's see.....
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The phone was startlingly loud in the high-ceilinged hall. Jean, her high-heels clipping on the wooden floor, hurried to the telephone desk and grabbed the handset off the receiver just before the answer-phone set in.
“Templeton House, Mrs Sweeney speaking.” She loved how that sounded. Templeton House, a place she would ever have dreamed of living in as a child. And Mrs Sweeney, not Jean, not just because it had more gravitas, but because it told people she had been the one to fight hard enough, and long enough, to capture Robert. Other women might have tried, dripping off his arm one after the other, but only she’d managed to keep him.
“Paddy-from-Castlewellan here.” The man had a broad country accent, so thick she had to concentrate to understand. She frowned, trying to place either the voice or the name, but neither came to mind.
“Yes?” she said. Perhaps he’d ask to do some work on the house, like the fellows who turned up every summer, offering to do her driveway. Travellers, quite clearly, not the sort of workmen Robert would tolerate.
“You asked me to be on the look out,” said Paddy. “For books and objects, like.”
Her back straightened, on alert, but she held herself in check. She’d had other such calls before. All, once investigated, had proved useless: false mediums using crystal balls made of lumps of glass; wise women who turned out not to have second-sight but a nosiness that kept them in secrets for years.
“Go on,” she said. Strange though these lines of enquiry might be, the police investigation had proved a dead end and a private investigator had turned up only hints. Where normal rules and rationality failed, a more esoteric approach might be effective.
“There was a death in Newcastle at the weekend,” said Paddy-from-Castlewellan.
“And?”
“The Grey Lady turned up.”
Jean stared out the window, eyes raking the wind-assailed driveway. The beech trees waved like they were alive and she couldn’t decide if she liked it or if it was unsettling. The man didn’t give anymore details, so she was forced to ask: “The who turned up?”
“The Grey Lady. She’s a banshee.”
“Go on,” she said, hiding her disappointment. A banshee, even if it were possible, wasn’t what she needed: a banshee knew what was to come, not what had been.
“One of the people who helped out was an artist. She was painting a picture of the harbour before it happened.”
“Yes?” By goodness, he was long-winded.
“Well, she saw the banshee.”
So what? The words were on the tip of her tongue, when his meaning sank in.
“Did anyone else see it?” She had to know there was no confusion, but already her heart was quickening with excitement.
“The man who died. He was of the family. They’re normally the only ones who see the Grey Lady. But this other woman did, down at the harbour. She told Anne, my sister’s best friend, who works in the bar. She helped with the first aid. That’s how she heard and she knows I'm on the look out for that kind of thing.” He paused, and she could tell there was a punchline building. “She even managed to grab the picture for me. I have it now.”
“You stole it?” She hadn’t asked anyone to steal but couldn’t bring herself to be disappointed.
“Aye.” His voice gave no hint of any shame. “And Anne’s right. The Grey Lady is in it. The artist definitely saw the banshee.” Another pause and she could practically hear the cogs turning in the man’s head. “Do I get my cut, Mrs Sweeney? You said you’d pay for any information on the old ways. I know it was objects I was to keep an eye out for, from house sales and the like, but this might still be useful? I have the picture, and her number and address. Our Jim works at the reception of the hotel she stayed at, and he slipped it to me. And her website – she has other pictures on it.”
She made sure to hide that she was secretly impressed. “Indeed you should get your cut. Paddy, wasn’t it? Let me give you my email.” She read it out, carefully and had him read it back. “Please send me a copy of the picture. Plus the bank I should send remittance to. Now, what was the address of the website, please?”
Carefully she copied it down and hung up. She went into the lounge and took her iPad off its charger, quickly inputting the website.
Disappointment filled her. The pictures on the website were landscapes, with few standing out. None screamed of any sort of psychic ability. She scrolled to the second page and stopped at one picture. It was darker than its companions, taking her attention in a way the others had not. It was a seascape, on a wild day. The water seemed to rake into land, so strong were the brush strokes, so precise and exact. She could nearly taste the tang of brine and the sudden chill of a squall hitting.
In the background a building could be seen, its tower stretching like a single finger against a darkened sky. She recognised it as Ballygally Castle, the hotel with the supposed ghost. She picked up the smallest smudge of white at the top window, as if a face watched from above. She zoomed in, checking, and, yes, it was in the ghost-room in the turret’s window.
The ping of an incoming email drew her away. Quickly, she opened the attachment and leaned in, glasses perched on the end of her nose. The picture of the harbour was rough, obviously a working sketch but that it had been painted by the same artist was undeniable – even in the rough pastels there was a semblance to the structure and feel of the Ballygally picture. She found herself pulling her scarf around her neck, as if there was a chill in the air.
The harbour in the painting had been captured as both bleak and oddly beautiful. There, amongst the boats, her grey dress sweeping the quayside, was the undeniable figure of a woman.
She had to sit down. Her head was light. She sank onto the couch, a smile breaking, part disbelief, part delight. This artist was the real thing: finally, she might get the answer she’d waited so long for. Once again, as with Robert, she'd been the one who had waited for the right moment, and it had paid off. She pinched the screen, making the image bigger.
Oh, and just how it had paid off.
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The phone was startlingly loud in the high-ceilinged hall. Jean, her high-heels clipping on the wooden floor, hurried to the telephone desk and grabbed the handset off the receiver just before the answer-phone set in.
“Templeton House, Mrs Sweeney speaking.” She loved how that sounded. Templeton House, a place she would ever have dreamed of living in as a child. And Mrs Sweeney, not Jean, not just because it had more gravitas, but because it told people she had been the one to fight hard enough, and long enough, to capture Robert. Other women might have tried, dripping off his arm one after the other, but only she’d managed to keep him.
“Paddy-from-Castlewellan here.” The man had a broad country accent, so thick she had to concentrate to understand. She frowned, trying to place either the voice or the name, but neither came to mind.
“Yes?” she said. Perhaps he’d ask to do some work on the house, like the fellows who turned up every summer, offering to do her driveway. Travellers, quite clearly, not the sort of workmen Robert would tolerate.
“You asked me to be on the look out,” said Paddy. “For books and objects, like.”
Her back straightened, on alert, but she held herself in check. She’d had other such calls before. All, once investigated, had proved useless: false mediums using crystal balls made of lumps of glass; wise women who turned out not to have second-sight but a nosiness that kept them in secrets for years.
“Go on,” she said. Strange though these lines of enquiry might be, the police investigation had proved a dead end and a private investigator had turned up only hints. Where normal rules and rationality failed, a more esoteric approach might be effective.
“There was a death in Newcastle at the weekend,” said Paddy-from-Castlewellan.
“And?”
“The Grey Lady turned up.”
Jean stared out the window, eyes raking the wind-assailed driveway. The beech trees waved like they were alive and she couldn’t decide if she liked it or if it was unsettling. The man didn’t give anymore details, so she was forced to ask: “The who turned up?”
“The Grey Lady. She’s a banshee.”
“Go on,” she said, hiding her disappointment. A banshee, even if it were possible, wasn’t what she needed: a banshee knew what was to come, not what had been.
“One of the people who helped out was an artist. She was painting a picture of the harbour before it happened.”
“Yes?” By goodness, he was long-winded.
“Well, she saw the banshee.”
So what? The words were on the tip of her tongue, when his meaning sank in.
“Did anyone else see it?” She had to know there was no confusion, but already her heart was quickening with excitement.
“The man who died. He was of the family. They’re normally the only ones who see the Grey Lady. But this other woman did, down at the harbour. She told Anne, my sister’s best friend, who works in the bar. She helped with the first aid. That’s how she heard and she knows I'm on the look out for that kind of thing.” He paused, and she could tell there was a punchline building. “She even managed to grab the picture for me. I have it now.”
“You stole it?” She hadn’t asked anyone to steal but couldn’t bring herself to be disappointed.
“Aye.” His voice gave no hint of any shame. “And Anne’s right. The Grey Lady is in it. The artist definitely saw the banshee.” Another pause and she could practically hear the cogs turning in the man’s head. “Do I get my cut, Mrs Sweeney? You said you’d pay for any information on the old ways. I know it was objects I was to keep an eye out for, from house sales and the like, but this might still be useful? I have the picture, and her number and address. Our Jim works at the reception of the hotel she stayed at, and he slipped it to me. And her website – she has other pictures on it.”
She made sure to hide that she was secretly impressed. “Indeed you should get your cut. Paddy, wasn’t it? Let me give you my email.” She read it out, carefully and had him read it back. “Please send me a copy of the picture. Plus the bank I should send remittance to. Now, what was the address of the website, please?”
Carefully she copied it down and hung up. She went into the lounge and took her iPad off its charger, quickly inputting the website.
Disappointment filled her. The pictures on the website were landscapes, with few standing out. None screamed of any sort of psychic ability. She scrolled to the second page and stopped at one picture. It was darker than its companions, taking her attention in a way the others had not. It was a seascape, on a wild day. The water seemed to rake into land, so strong were the brush strokes, so precise and exact. She could nearly taste the tang of brine and the sudden chill of a squall hitting.
In the background a building could be seen, its tower stretching like a single finger against a darkened sky. She recognised it as Ballygally Castle, the hotel with the supposed ghost. She picked up the smallest smudge of white at the top window, as if a face watched from above. She zoomed in, checking, and, yes, it was in the ghost-room in the turret’s window.
The ping of an incoming email drew her away. Quickly, she opened the attachment and leaned in, glasses perched on the end of her nose. The picture of the harbour was rough, obviously a working sketch but that it had been painted by the same artist was undeniable – even in the rough pastels there was a semblance to the structure and feel of the Ballygally picture. She found herself pulling her scarf around her neck, as if there was a chill in the air.
The harbour in the painting had been captured as both bleak and oddly beautiful. There, amongst the boats, her grey dress sweeping the quayside, was the undeniable figure of a woman.
She had to sit down. Her head was light. She sank onto the couch, a smile breaking, part disbelief, part delight. This artist was the real thing: finally, she might get the answer she’d waited so long for. Once again, as with Robert, she'd been the one who had waited for the right moment, and it had paid off. She pinched the screen, making the image bigger.
Oh, and just how it had paid off.
(thank you!) 
