On Harting Hill #2
I saw how young she was, no more than seventeen or eighteen, and somehow that shocked me. Thin arms and legs, long drab hair framing a thin, pale face. A cheap dress with a narrow belt and rather old-fashioned shoes. Indoor shoes, not right for walking.
‘You could have been killed.’
She stepped back, as if now only noticing me for the first time, and raised her head. Dark eyes, dark. No light in them.
‘Yes,’ she said. A quiet voice, barely audible.
‘Well,’ I said. She looked such a sorry little thing. I waited, thinking she’d explain why she was there or where she was going, but she said nothing more.
‘Here,’ I said, taking off my jacket and draping it over her thin shoulders. ‘You’re shaking. You’re cold.’
She didn’t thank me, merely stood there as if barely aware of the action or the weight of the material.
‘Are you trying to get home? Did your lift let you down?’
She didn’t look the type to have a boyfriend, but what did I know? I pulled the branch out from under the car.
‘Well,’ I said again. ‘No harm done, I suppose.’
Although I wanted to press on, I knew Bill wouldn’t worry and I couldn’t leave her.
‘You’d better let me drop you home,’ I said. ‘Where do you live, nearby? Harting?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Harting it is,’ I said, hoping the car would start. ‘I’m Tom, by the way. And you?’
At first, I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then, softly, she did.
‘Mary. Mary Starr.’
‘Pretty name,’ I said, more to fill the silence than anything else. ‘Come on then.’
With surprising speed, Mary seated herself behind me. I was conscious of her dark eyes on the back of my head as I found reverse and turned to go back down the hill. She didn’t make a sound. I glanced at her in my driving mirror.
‘Won’t be long,’ I said.
It was cold inside the car and I fiddled with the dial on the heater, but it didn’t seem to be working.
I could feel the weight of her sadness pressing down on me too.
I wished the whole business was over and I was sitting in Bill’s brightly lit sitting room with a whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
‘Smoke?’
Mary gave no sign she’d heard me.
‘You won’t mind if I do?’
I shrugged and lit a cigarette anyway.
The drizzle had stopped and there was no fog at the bottom of the hill, but I was relieved all the same when I saw the lights at the edge of the village.
I glanced again in the mirror. Mary was still, motionless, fingers twisting the shabby material of her dress, swamped by my jacket.
I drove past the church, with its copper spire, past the houses, waiting for her to give me directions to where she lived.
I was forced to brake as a fox shot across the High Street in front of us.
‘Will this do?’
When she still didn’t answer, I pulled over by the telephone box, where I’d parked earlier, killed the engine and twisted round in my seat.
She wasn’t there. The car was empty.
I got out, at that moment more annoyed about my jacket than worried about the girl.
‘Mary?’ I called out to the empty street.
I strode into the Ship Inn, determined to find out where Mary’s family lived. After everything I’d done for her, I wasn’t inclined to let it go. It wasn’t just the jacket, but my wallet and pocket diary too.
‘Anyone know where the Starr family lives?’
Again, is it memory playing tricks that recalls an intake of breath in the public bar, the sharp glances crossing from the landlord to the old men on the table beside the fire?
‘It’s Mary I’m after,’ I said.
‘Again,’ someone muttered, but a glare from his companions silenced him and he hunched back into his beer.
‘Ten yards up to the right,’ said the landlord. ‘End of the path.’
Moments later I was back on the street and walking up a narrow lane to a row of cottages. I knocked on the door, then stood back to wait for someone to answer.
‘Mrs Starr, is it?’ I said, when a woman appeared. ‘Sorry to disturb you so late.’ Thin and with an air of abject defeat, she had the look of someone old before her time. ‘I gave a lift to your . . . to Mary,’ I said.
A flash of alarm in her eyes, then despair.
‘Oh no,’ I thought I heard her say.
From inside the small house, a man’s rough voice, slurred with drink.
‘Who is it?’
‘Go away,’ she whispered, trying to close the door. ‘Leave us alone.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, a little nettled by her rudeness. ‘I haven’t explained myself properly. I picked up Mary on Harting Hill not five minutes ago. I’m sure it’s a mistake, but when she got out of the car, she forgot to give my jacket back.’
‘She’s not here,’ the woman said. ‘How could she be?’
‘I pulled up in the square,’ I said, ‘and she just hopped out. Five minutes ago, ten at most.’
Again, the drunk bellowing from the front room.
‘Who the hell is it?’
‘Go, please go,’ she said, desperate this time. ‘She’s not here.’
I didn’t want to cause trouble between this downtrodden woman and her husband.
‘At least tell me if she’s not here, where else might she be?’
For an instant, the haunted look in her eyes gave way to something else. Grief, perhaps. Resignation, maybe.
‘The church,’ she said softly.
This caught me out. ‘So late?’
‘Where else would she be?’
I heard the sound of a bolt being shot, then a heartrending sob. I raised my hand to knock again, then let it drop. The woman was clearly terrorised by her brute of a husband. Perhaps Mary was too scared to go home?
I walked back to the High Street. The Ship Inn and the White Hart had called last orders and one or two rag-taggle farm workers were calling their goodnights into the damp night air.
One of the black wrought-iron gates into the churchyard was ajar, as if someone had recently slipped through.
I pushed it open, thinking Mary might have taken refuge here after all.
But the door stayed shut when I rattled the heavy cast-iron handle.
I stepped out into the graveyard. Neat headstones closer to the church, rather more overgrown in the corners.
Yew and mulberry and evergreen hedges. By an imposing flint wall, a row of older gravestones like broken teeth, a little crooked and sinking back into the earth.
I sensed movement. I narrowed my eyes and tried to adjust my vision to the darkness. Another fox? A sound in the undergrowth, little more than that.
‘Mary?’
I skirted the building and walked towards the sound. The bottom of my trousers grew damp with the dew from the grass and the cold night air slipped beneath my collar, but I paid no attention.
‘Mary, is that you?’
I rounded the corner and found myself in a more secluded section of the graveyard. Stone angels and crosses, the flat tombs of an older age, and a few modern headstones. I could see no one, just shadows, phantasms in the intermittent moonlight.
No one.
But there was something moving, swaying in the breeze, something hanging on one of the gravestones. My jacket. I walked forward, then leant down to take it from the headstone. Forced myself to read the inscription, though I feared what it was going to say.
MARY STARR
3rd OCTOBER 1931 – 27th OCTOBER 1951
IN GOD’S CARE
Bill tells me they found me there in the morning, clutching my jacket to my chest. I had a slight fever, a chill from spending the night out of doors. I wasn’t ill, but not quite right either.
A local had seen my car still parked in the square, remembered me asking for directions to the Starr’s house and put two and two together. It wasn’t the first time, you see.
Bill came to fetch me – his number was on the map still lying on the passenger seat of the car.
I stayed with him for a few days until I felt well enough to drive back to town.
He told me the whole story. Mary had been seen before, always on the same stretch of road, always on the anniversary of her death.
A local girl, Mary Starr, killed on Harting Hill ten years before.
Hit and run in the days before there were such things.
Or had she simply lost her footing and fallen?
No one was sure. A sweet girl, innocent, who had gone for a drive with a local boy and without her father’s permission.
When the boy wouldn’t take no for an answer and put her out of the car, Mary had no choice but to walk home in the worst storm they’d suffered for years.
He raised the alarm when rumours spread that Mary had never arrived.
Rain and mudslides, flooding on the lower roads, her body not found for days.
This happened some time ago. And although I was haunted by thoughts of Mary lost on the hillside, the memory of that night and my role in bringing her home is less troubling now.
Several years have passed. I married again, happily this time, and we have a wonderful daughter.
Bright, charming, works hard at school. My wife says I am overprotective, and perhaps I am.
From time to time, when we drive down to spend a weekend with Bill and his wife, he teases me about it too, though he understands.
I don’t believe in ghosts, never did. All the same, each time I pass through South Harting, I stop at the church. To lay flowers on the grave of a girl I once met.