It was only a four-minute fill-in between two programmes on the radio, but hearing that particular piece of music shook Harry out of an uneasy reverie and swept him back half a century to the late 1920s. He had come down from university a year earlier with an undistinguished degree, been repelled by the idea of school-mastering as the option then common for men in that situation, and in the absence of other offers taken a junior position in the family firm. Unlike many of his student contemporaries, he could not afford to remain idle, but was chary of revealing the fact; he did have his pride. As a rule he therefore made excuses when suggestions for getting together again came his way; however, for long-forgotten reasons that must have seemed good at the time, there was one major exception when he mistakenly accepted an invitation to spend a weekend at the home of a friend with whom he had briefly shared digs.

He could not now remember the occasion for the visit, and only a few years after it had lost touch with that friend, who in any case was completely out of his class and had gone on to heights in public service far beyond Harry’s decidedly modest hopes or ambitions. He did remember that Francis had taken seriously his obligations as host and done his best to draw Harry into the activities of the party, but it was an uphill task and not always successful. Harry too tried conscientiously but ineptly to fit in, feeling like a fish out of water for much of the time, but gave up the struggle when most of the party retired to play bridge; his ignorance of the game was matched only by a disdain that as a matter of courtesy he tried to conceal. In retrospect, the effort had probably been inadequate.

Pleading fatigue he had instead taken a book to the drawing room, hoping for solitude, but found with some annoyance that Philip Something-or-other was already there at the piano. He was a pale young man who reminded Harry of one of the more effete characters in a Noel Coward show, but his talent in that respect was undeniable, and "Graceful Ghost" was the next piece in his repertoire. Somehow it seemed to Harry not quite right in the context, but it calmed his nerves, so whatever the incongruity might be he dismissed it as unimportant and relaxed to the gentle charm of the music. He even managed to muster a sort of smile when Philip noticed his presence and nodded to him.

After a blustery day a southerly breeze had banished the clouds and then fallen away to nothing, leaving a warm, moonlit evening; the French windows were open to a verandah overlooking the garden, and no doubt the performance could be clearly heard for some distance outside. The grounds were large, as befitted the house, with a formal area in geometric designs leading to a walled rose garden. The main avenue of the layout passed through it by arched gateways into an arboretum and on to a fair-sized lake.

Harry had once been casually introduced to Philip’s sister Sarah, who struck him as the epitome of elegance, and gracious with it; her attempts to dispel his tongue-tied incoherence seemed genuinely friendly. Indeed, a few days later when they had chanced to meet again, he imagined a flicker of real interest on her part, but reluctantly dismissed the notion as wishful thinking. Nevertheless she haunted his dreams for months. He was indeed thinking about her when as if drawn by the music she appeared, gently twirling along the verandah. Again Noel Coward came to mind. She seemed completely absorbed in her own thoughts, but just before she passed out of sight Harry thought she glanced in his direction with a slight beckoning gesture. After a brief argument with himself over the likelihood of its reality, and despite an irritating niggle at the back of his mind about the banal theatricality of the whole scenario, he settled on the thought that there was nothing to lose and followed.

Sarah was by now well ahead of him, but her white dress showed up well in the moonlight. Torn between vague hopes and more distinct fears of an all too predictable disappointment, he was in no hurry to catch up. Her path led through the rose garden, where the scent of the blooms was delicious, and on into the arboretum. The way through was plain enough, so it hardly mattered that Sarah was only intermittently in sight, until he emerged by the side of the lake and she seemed to have vanished altogether. He wondered where she could have gone, but then saw the gleam of white a couple of hundred yards away to the right beside a boathouse. However, it seemed curiously static, and he realised on approaching that it was a column set into the ground. It was inscribed "In memory of Sarah Heseltine, 1906 - 1927. A dearly loved daughter and sister." He stood horror-struck.

A noisy announcement of the next item on the radio roused him from his reminiscence. He had evidently fallen asleep, as these days he tended to do more and more often, even during programmes there or on television that had particularly attracted him. It was rather worrying, although he told himself that in retirement it hardly mattered; he seldom paid for it with night-time insomnia. He had never married (though whether as he sometimes wondered because he shirked the responsibility or the right woman had simply not come his way, he could never be sure) and had only himself to please in the house. Keeping it and himself in tolerable order generally took few hours of the day, his work had equipped him with no skills in particular demand outside, he was unadventurous in his hobbies, and hardly any "voluntary" duties were thrust upon him; he consequently had time on his hands, and dozing at least helped it to pass.

Still, for some reason the memory of his dream nagged at him. He eventually identified at least the source of his unease about the music; "Graceful Ghost" was far too recent a composition to have been known at the time of his visit. He wondered how much more of his recollection might be equally unreliable. It so happened that the National Trust handbook had arrived that morning and he had noticed the house in question as one of those open to the public; that was presumably the real trigger for recalling his visit. On a rare impulse towards positive action, he resolved to take another look at it. A great deal must have changed over the decades, but much of the place might still remain.

Actually, apart from the basic structure, very little did. He did the usual round of the open rooms, was disappointed at finding hardly any resemblance to his vague memories, but then remembered that as a guest he would of course have been mostly in the domestic quarters which were now marked "Private". About to leave after completing the tour, he happened to find the chief custodian chatting at the reception desk and fell into conversation with her, mentioning that he had himself been at a house party there in 1928. That immediately aroused her interest, and she was eager to know how far the place had changed. "Pretty thoroughly, I should say, though my memory’s getting hazy. I suppose it’s the usual story - death duties, decline in the family fortunes and so on?" "That among other things. The house was requisitioned by the military during the war, then occupied by some government body for a few years and afterwards left empty. It was in a shocking state when the Trust took it over. We’ve done our best to get things back as they were, or at least in keeping with the basic style, but it’s probably nowhere near authentic." As an afterthought she suggested that if he was willing, whatever he could remember might be very helpful towards making the restoration a little more accurate.

Harry doubted it, but left the suggestion open. It led naturally to asking if he was right in thinking that there was a memorial near the boathouse to a girl who had died very young, or had he merely imagined it? "Yes, it’s there all right. It was in a dreadfully shabby state, but we’ve cleaned and re-painted it. To be honest, we probably shouldn’t have bothered, but our handyman thought that in that state it was an insult to the dead and did it up in his spare time." "Good for him. I know it’s a long shot, but is anything known of what happened to her?" "Funny you should ask, but then coincidence does seem to strike surprisingly often. Only a few weeks ago, a letter about it turned up when someone was going through her family’s records, and we were sent a copy. Very sad, it was. Apparently she was a particular friend of this family, not actually engaged to the son of the house but there was believed to be what they called an understanding, and they held her twenty-first birthday party here. It was a fine night and a few of the youngsters decided to take a boat out on the lake. I don’t suppose they were altogether sober. Anyway, something went wrong; no one seems to have been very precise about it afterwards, maybe for legal reasons, but reading between the lines there was probably a bit of horse-play. Whatever it was, it ended up with Sarah being drowned. She’s buried in her home parish, of course, but the family here were devastated by the accident and had a little monument put up near the spot."

Harry diffidently told her that he had known the girl very slightly and wondered if he might take a look at the place. "You actually knew her?" "Well, only the slightest acquaintance, really. I met her just a couple of times and thought she was wonderful." "That seems to have been the general opinion. Hmm. We don’t normally allow visitors down there, but in such particular circumstances, and of course with your being a member, I think we ought to make an exception. But do take care; that area’s been neglected badly and I shouldn’t like you to come a cropper. I’d come with you myself only we’re expecting a party any minute. Do you think you can find the way if I point you in the right direction?" With fingers crossed, he assured her that he could.

The walk down to the lake was depressing, and a turn for the worse in the weather added to the gloom, with the air becoming sultry and a suggestion of thunder in the distance. Harry wondered if he should turn back, but thought it would be discourteous in view of the privilege he had been given and so went on. He was disappointed to see that the rose garden had been given over to vegetables, though at least they were well tended. Otherwise the custodian had understated the neglect; the wall where the further gate had been seemed on the verge of collapse and the path through the arboretum was overgrown with scrub. The shore-line of the lake was choked with reeds, the paving of the path beside it broken and uneven, the boathouse seriously dilapidated, and the stones of the jetty covered in moss where they had not already fallen into the water. Beside it, the remains of a boat lay half buried in silt. However, Harry was relieved to find the monument very much as he had only half-expected it. He spent a minute or two in sad contemplation. As he straightened up after reading the inscription, a sudden pain took his breath away and he was compelled to rest on a rusty seat nearby. The daylight seemed to fade almost to nothing, then returned more brightly.

A cool breeze had suddenly sprung up and he felt strangely reinvigorated, as though he had indeed gone back to a bracing day in his youth. The sky was cloudless. Sparkling wavelets were gently rocking a smart little boat moored to the jetty. Then he was surprised by a touch of fabric against his cheek, and a hand rested gently on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Sarah standing beside him, just as he remembered her. "Come along, Harry," she said cheerfully. "It’s time to be going. Don’t keep me waiting any longer."

ã Peter D. Wilson, October 2010

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