The Lady of North Lodge

By Lisa Talbott

North Lodge had been empty for years until Gil and Sophie stumbled across it during a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive and pulled out all the stops to purchase their dream fairytale cottage before it went to auction.  It was everything they could wish for, it was going to be a restoration project done with the utmost passion and dedication.

Steeped in history and intrigue, they were determined to find out everything they could about the cottage's former owners whilst endeavoring to integrate with the locals in the little sleepy village of Kirkby Mallory.

A few bumps in the night and electrical failures didn't seem out of the ordinary, considering the age of the house, until their niece came to visit who enlightened her aunt and uncle about 'the lady' she talked to, the one who had a broken heart and never left because she was waiting for her German POW lover to come back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lineage Independent Publishing
• Release date: Nov 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958418222

Lisa Talbott

Lisa Talbott was born in Norfolk, but grew up in Leicestershire, England. She always hankered to move to sunnier climes to grow tomatoes and  become a song lyricist. Retired, Lisa now lives in a remote village in Central Portugal where, instead of writing lyrics, she found poetry more befitting.   Having acquired more land and animals than she ever wanted or needed, her lifestyle affords much inspiration for her writing, which has branched out to include short stories and novels.

Book preview

The Lady of North Lodge

The Lady of North Lodge

Lisa Talbott

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COPYRIGHT © 2023 LISA Talbott

Cover Art and Design by Andrew Hartshorn; Copyright © 2023

[e-mail]

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. Further, this work may not be used in any manner for the training of Artificial Intelligence (AI) technologies without the express written consent of both the author and publisher.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, relationships, dialogue, and incidents other than established historical facts are drawn from the author’s imagination and should not be construed as portrayals of real events.

ISBN (e-reader): 9781958418222

Publisher: Lineage Independent Publishing,

Marriottsville, MD, USA

Maryland Sales and Use Tax Entity: Lineage Independent Publishing, Marriottsville, MD 21104

Contact: [e-mail]

Website: https://lineage-indypub.com

To my parents, Elizabeth and Clifford Talbott

Contents

Foreword

In memory of ...

Bumps in the Night

North Lodge

The Viewing

Meeting The Neighbour

Noises

The Little Things

Sophie at North Lodge

Cynthia and Ronnie

Jackie

South Lodge

The Following Weeks

Months Later

The Girl Who Stayed Behind

Surprise Visitors

Fishing

Heinrich Ochs

Time to Say Goodbye

Sorrow

Spain

Ronnie Goode

Four Months Later

Ronnie

The Vision

Calling On The Neighbour

Sunday Church Service

The Witness

Loraine

The Accident

Loraine

The Lady Of North Lodge

A History Lesson

The Village Shop

The Discovery

Hearing Some Truth

Mrs. Giddy

Cynthia Goode

Two Years Later

May 1940: Rotterdam, Holland

Acknowledgements

Post-Script

Foreword

Once again, I am amazed by the depth of Lisa Talbott’s imagination. In this, her sixth novel, she goes deep into the possibility of paranormal events and the suggestion that a piece of real estate could be inhabited by the spirits of previous occupants.

From beginning to end, the twists and turns of the story—perhaps I should say ‘stories’ – left me wanting more. Through the eyes of a child, I was able to suspend disbelief and see that perhaps the departed may walk among us. Lisa’s images and writing painted those images for me. I could see the tension between family members when they were faced with end-of-life situations. I could even hear the voice of the villain in the letters he wrote to the girl he left behind.

Pay attention as the stories unfold. They are all related in some way and are brought together by the past and present Lady of North Lodge.

Michael Paul Hurd

Editor and Publisher

Lineage Independent Publishing

In memory of ...

I dreamt of you last night, my love. It all felt truly grand.

We were walking on a beach somewhere, barefoot in the sand.

You told me how you’d missed me.  I said I’d missed you too.

You apologised for leaving but there was nothing you could do.

You told me you were ‘happy now’ and that I was not to grieve,

and you couldn’t stay much longer here cos again you’d have to leave.

You turned me round to face you.  We hugged, and then we kissed.

That taste of you! The smell of you... everything I’ve missed.

We walked along that empty beach, holding hands, I sobbed.

Mindful of those years we loved, and of a future we were robbed.

You asked if we were wrong back then, and if we had our chance again, would we ... if we could?

I laughed out loud, threw back my head ...

In a heartbeat. Yes, I would.

Bumps in the Night

H oney, she whispered to the sleeping lump next to her, trying to rouse him, I can hear something. She manoeuvred herself into an upright position, listening, nervously. There it is again; did you hear that?

Her husband pretended not to hear her, he had an early morning alarm call, he didn’t need another night of interrupted sleep. It would most likely be the wind blowing through the laurel tree, causing it to brush against the bedroom window.

Sophie was now wide awake, alert, convinced she’d heard movements in the house but unsure which part. She leaned over to look at the digital alarm clock. The luminous numbers told her it was 3.10 a.m., exactly the same time she’d heard noises nights before. Gil gave a little snort as if confirming pretense of deep slumber.

She sat there, propped up against her pillow, planning her course of action should she hear another disturbing, unfamiliar sound, exasperated to comprehend how that idiot husband of hers wasn’t acknowledging her concerns!

And there it was again! A door or drawer slamming this time, downstairs.

Gil! she cried louder, shaking his shoulder, you have to go downstairs. Gil, there’s somebody in the house!

He reluctantly stirred, squinted at the alarm clock, and threw back the duvet angrily. For crying out loud, Soph, how many more times do we have to do this? There is never anybody there! The doors are locked, and yes I did double check. There is no way anybody can get inside, but I’ll pacify you again and go downstairs to make sure, even though this impacts on my much-needed sleep. You want to come with me, to satisfy yourself?

Sophie drew the duvet to her chin, shaking her head in deference and shivering with an unknown fear as she listened to Gil thundering down the staircase, switching on all the lights as he descended, grumbling loudly at having to repeat the same futile exercise over and over, then returning moments later and jumping back into bed, turning on his side, his back to his wife, Everything’s exactly the way we left it when we came to bed. Nobody is here but you and me. Please try to let me sleep. I’ve a busy day tomorrow.

She lay there for ages; how long, she had no idea, straining her ears for any slight sound, convinced she’d heard ‘something’.

North Lodge

North Lodge had been on the property market for at least two years, so they had been led to believe. It was your typical black and white chocolate-box cottage, almost fairy-like, though some described it as Gothic with its black twisted pillars either side the low front door, the finials and antiquated wooden architrave on the roof. The leaded-light windows were reminiscent of the era of this totally unique building. It oozed charm in abundance at every imaginable angle from the front gate to the water tower at the back of the property.

They’d stumbled across it by pure accident, taking a leisurely Sunday afternoon drive around, Gil taking a detour off the main roads, and suddenly found a quiet country lane that pointed to a lake further down.

They parked up, deciding to take a stroll. Gil was only an amateur fisherman but eager to see this lake. They’d not walked for many minutes down Stapleton Lane before they approached this beautiful, quaint cottage to their left. It was exquisite, to say the least. It was unimaginable to encounter something this unique in this area, in this day and age.

The black twisted wooden pillars had seats either side. The estate agent’s ‘for sale’ sign was covered in verdigris and was barely visible among the tall weeds.

Sophie stopped in her tracks, her mouth wide open. Gil! she exclaimed breathlessly, oh, my God, just look at this house! Isn’t it amazing? Her eyes scanned enthusiastically.

Soaps, he answered, lovingly using his pet name for her, it’s... well... it’s stunning! Who could ever contemplate selling something like this? Hey, go and sit on that seat over there and let me take a photograph of you. Let’s pretend to all our family and friends this is the new house we’ve bought.

She hurried over and sat there, between the two black twisted pillars, grinning happily at the camera, her hands reaching across to touch both pillars.

Let me take one of you, now, she said. Smile!

They eagerly huddled together, wanting to see the snaps they took, looking up and around the property in awe.

This is my dream home, Gil. I’ve always felt I belonged in something like this. Look at it: it’s absolutely perfect. I wouldn’t want to do anything to modernise it; that would be sacrilege. I’d just want it to be workable, liveable, like I was the guardian looking after it, so to speak. Oh, it’s divine isn’t it? I wonder how much they’re asking for it?

Massively out of our humble budget, I would say! A place like this, tucked away down this little country lane, that’s all it could be, Sweetheart, a ‘dream’ home.

Sophie wasn’t as quick to brush off the possibility of buying this gorgeous house as her impossibly negative husband! They’d already sold their house in London, their first home, making an embarrassingly tidy profit.

They had contemplated buying smaller, run-down houses in not so affluent areas, restoring them adequately enough to sell on and thus reaping a satisfactory return. But Sophie had eventually tired of living in the fast lane of London, the early morning meetings and the late home comings lost their monetary appeal over time, so on a whim she called the number of the estate agent on the ‘for sale’ sign later the next day, surprised to be informed that the cottage she was enquiring about was due to be auctioned.

And what is the expected maximum bid? she asked hopefully. Is there any possibility of buying the place before it goes to auction?

The lady on the other end of the phone confirmed that yes, provided everything could be agreed and completed two weeks prior to the arranged auction date, the property would be classed as ‘sold, subject to contract’.

She spent the whole afternoon nervously rehearsing the words she needed to inform her dismissive husband they had an appointment to view the following afternoon. How brave was she?

The Viewing

The door eventually opened to North Lodge and Sophie wanted to do a little dance with joy whilst desperately trying to dampen down her excitement, should the agents decide not to accept their offer, seeing her ‘we are definitely buying this place’ body language.

They brushed away cobwebs as they walked over piles of discoloured envelopes, faded newspapers, and junk mail on the floor and entered the large kitchen area. There was so much to take in: the Belfast sink set inside the utilitarian handmade pine units, the antiquated cream Aga cooker standing on a stone plinth, the chimney breast full of meat hooks and wheels, housed on an enormous black beam. Some of the ceiling was falling in, exposing old and obsolete electrical wiring. Towards the back of the kitchen there was a little latched doorway which revealed a walk-in pantry, shelves empty apart from a couple of glass oil lamps, a huge red tin of Mansion floor polish, a box of white candles, Ajax, blue bags for washing, things never seen by 21st Century housewives and warranted being on display in some museum.

Next, they walked into the reception-area-cum-hallway. There was a leather monk’s settle with brass ball and claw feet covered in dust and mildew. Sophie could picture herself polishing this and adding some of her vintage-style cushions. Next, they walked into the living room, all the time Gil nervously adding up the inevitable phenomenal costs of restoring this place to its former glory, his wife oblivious.

The narrow, open staircase led off from the hallway into the first single bedroom, which then led to the master bedroom. It was sensational! The open crossed beams looked like a lady’s fan, and Gil was dismayed to realise the floors were not made of wood, but concrete, and once again his wife totally ignoring any of his negative comments.

Honey, she tried her best sympathetic and reassuring ploy, this will be our forever home. We have a lifetime to tend to its needs. If anyone can bring this back to life, it’s you. Think of the satisfaction you will get by healing it in your own special way.

It’s a Grade 2 Listed Building, the estate agent casually threw in, so obviously you will need to take that into consideration. No new windows, or certainly not the cheap and nasty kind. You could, however, apply for a grant for some of the most essential repairs, from the Crown Estate.

Gil groaned loudly. He knew it was going to be a nightmare, and an expensive nightmare to boot. Every time he looked at his wife’s beaming face, he felt his bank balance depleting.

Sophie, it doesn’t even have any central heating, and I haven’t see any gas connections yet. If there’s no gas in the vicinity, then we have to install electric storage heaters.

Wow, only the one bill, then. She turned to the agent, Does it have a bathroom?

And a small utility room next to the conservatory, downstairs, she answered.

Sophie had made her mind up before she even walked back downstairs. She was going to have this house by hook or by crook. Be damned to Mr. Skinflint. There was nothing, in her opinion, that was going to be too much for them to undertake or to afford!

We’ll have it! she announced officially, not daring to look at her husband’s profound astonishment. We can have the money transferred this week. My husband and I will visit our bank tomorrow and make the necessary arrangements. Cancel the auction and please put a ‘sold, subject to contract’ sign outside as soon as possible.

The agent was thrilled, Don’t you want to have a surveyor look it over first?

I don’t think that will be necessary. My husband and I have made our minds up – haven’t we, Honey? she grinned.

"Oh!  Well... Yes, my dear! It